


the universe is pitted against us

by thespiritscalling



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gen, Gratuitous use of italics, Kinda, M/M, Mild descriptions of violence, Spy!AU, basically: an intelligence office in the middle of new york, some angst but don't worry there's fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-11-05 21:02:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespiritscalling/pseuds/thespiritscalling
Summary: Over the years working at the agency, Spot and Race have built up quite a resume of Questionably Weird Things That Only Seem To Happen To Them. Nobody else seems to have these problems. It's like sitting down with a bag of chips and never getting to open them because everybody keeps interrupting-The universe must have something against them, because it's been literal years and that bag still has not been opened. Jeez. Race would probably throw something at the universe if he had the chance, but for now they've just got to stick it out and hope that someday they'll get a break.(They really want those chips.)





	1. Local Assassination Attempt Continues To Go Wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i will fight for you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426595) by [isthepartyover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthepartyover/pseuds/isthepartyover). 



> this is also for isthepartyover because it is because of her au that I've started writing for this! I wrote a (not) small thing a couple months ago ft. her au (it's on my tumblr! http://impalahallows.tumblr.com/post/158191623309/hey-mr-no-name-kid ) but I just fell in love with it so here y'all go  
> anyway I had this idea about a thing with chapter titles sounding kinda like buzzfeed article names so this is the first of a group that I've had great plans for!

Race has been working at the Lower Manhattan Intelligence Office for three years when Spot is hired.

At first, they see each other only in passing, because they always seem to get to work at the same time. Spot watches as Race slips off his shoes as soon as he steps inside, something that he's been doing since a dare competition with Smalls, and they only part ways at the stairwell. Spot goes down. Race goes up. Their days go on.

"Aren't shoes required in a place like this?" asks Spot, after sitting on the question for about a month. 

Race's mouth quirks. "Nobody's told me off yet."

"Maybe it's time someone should," Spot grumbles. Race restrains himself from throwing one of the shoes at the chemist and smiles sarcastically instead.

Later, Race asks Bits what he's allowed to know from Spot's employee file. Apparently, Spot is originally from Brooklyn, twenty-two, lives in a small apartment up in a northern area of New York. Degree in specialized biochemistry, graduated near the top of the class.

Besides that, Bits says there's not much.

Race has looked into his own file enough times that he could recite most of what is on it from memory. He knows exactly what kind of information goes on the files, and much of what Bits hasn't told him would generally still be common knowledge.

There's something about mystery and secrets that Race is drawn to, and Spot is calling to him. 

He resolves to see what he can do.

"Your socks don't match," Spot points out the next day.

Race sets him with a thin look. "They're not supposed to."

"Hey," Spot says, putting his hands up. "Never said they were."

"It was implied."

At that, Spot smiles. "Yeah. You're right."

Race yells, "Asshole!" at Spot's retreating figure, and Spot laughs. It's a nice sound.

They quickly fall into a routine of insults ("is that a bird on your head or just a really ugly hat?" "looks better than your unwashed vomit shirt.") and Race keeps hacking, still finding jack squat on the missing files.

He does notice that Spot happen to come to work in a different form of transportation almost every day. Sometimes he walks, when his jacket is slung over his work bag due to the heat. Other times Race watches him come out of a taxi, and at one point when Race is about to enter the building he sees Spot hop out of the back seat of Jack's car.

The group of people working at the agency has fluctuated over the three and a half years Race has been working. Bits is applying for a transfer across the country to be closer to his family and Race has already met the person who's going to share his office next: a genius boy with fat glasses who has already beat Race in almost ten online games of chess. Everyone calls him Specs, and Race is ready to have such a friendly person share his office. Not that he's happy to see Bits go- Bits has taught him a lot- but he's excited for Specs' arrival.

Aside from Bits' transfer, there have been recruits in the field area that Race sees doing drills led by Smalls, something he finds somewhat hilarious due to her youth and size. Jack is one of them, and his story is well-known: he was picked up after escaping the employment of a popular criminal leader in the New York underground, and he's survived more than some of the seasoned field agents despite only being twenty-four years old. 

He grew up with Spot, Race will find out later. He's more occupied with what he's about to find.

When Race is bored, he watches the outdoor camera feeds, seeing who leaves and who enters and who just passes by. It's a way to pass the time, especially when his empty apartment is the last place he wants to be. His office is much more like home.

The clock hits 6:10 and just as Race expects, Spot appears at the front doors. Working hours officially end at 6:00, but most agents take the day's hours as a loose suggestion. Spot is routined and finishes his work at 6:00 on the dot, then washes, hangs up his coat, and leaves in a way different than how he came. Race only knows when he leaves. 

Today, a group of dark-clothed guys have taken up residence in front of the building across from the agency- a laundromat, Race thinks, though he can't see the sign and overlooks it every day- and they disperse as Spot walks out the building and down the street. They all seem to be watching him.

Race quickly hacks into the city's traffic camera feed. He sees one of the men break off and disappear down a side street. Another crosses the road, and the final person waits before walking inconspicuously in the same direction as Spot. Race shifts in his seat. The agency (rather, Bits) had taught him how to pick up on potential threats, something extremely necessary when leading missions. Race isn't completely sure, but the way the group split just after Spot left the building seems like no accident. He uses that as justification as he continues to follow Spot on the screen.

Sure enough, as Spot turns a corner there's one of the guys down the street, and when Spot turns again, so appears another. Race types a few things, keeps the faces of all four people on his screen, and turns the traffic light red, getting Spot out of sight of one of the men.

He does the same at the next intersection, operating off the hope that they don't know where Spot's apartment is. When he's sure that Spot has lost them, he feels himself relax just a bit. 

What he can't understand is why people would be trailing Spot, specifically. Spot's mystery keeps getting deeper, and Race tells himself that keeping him safe is one of the keys to finding out more.

Race goes home after this. He feels oddly drained, and falls asleep quickly. 

He's extremely relieved when Spot appears unharmed the next morning, and insults him as usual.

The next few days progress as usual. Race watches carefully for any sign of the men, who haven't returned since their small trailing attempt the couple days previous. 

"Really?" Spot asks, a slight smile gracing his face, as they're about to part ways. "I thought you were above that."

"You're the one who responded," Race says. "Your face jokes require a back-and forth."

"I was never informed of this," Spot replies. His eyebrows raise as Race looks at him skeptically. 

Race shakes his head. "You have had a sad childhood," he says.

Almost immediately, Spot freezes, smile dropping off his face. "Don't ever assume anything about my life," he hisses, and he's gone down the stairs without another sound.

Stunned, Race stands for a minute, blinking at the door Spot disappeared through. He manages to make it to his office before the dam holding back his river of thoughts cracks open.

Because apparently making a small jab at Spot's childhood was enough to shatter any balance they had built between them.

Part of him screams _go and apologize, asshole_. The rational part of his mind tells him that Spot wouldn't yet accept his apology and would probably throw some sort of chemically adjusted acid in his face.

Race doesn't want chemically adjusted acid thrown in his face, so he collapses into his chair and tries to make sense of his thoughts.

After a while of sorting and organizing what information he's been given since Bits looked into Spot's employee file, the only thing he ends up with is don't keep trying.

That day, he makes four errors in his code that should have been easy to catch and snaps a pencil trying to write a memo to Admin. He blames it on the disruption of routine, even though he thrives on uncertainty, and he disregards the worry he feels about Spot. They're rivals. Well, sort of. It almost seemed like both parties were enjoying the insults.

They're rivals now, for sure, because Race screwed up.

He spots the group of guys outside again and grits his teeth. They're lurking outside of the laundromat, and when he zooms the camera into them Race catches sight of a small alarm system inside the store. Perfect.

The thing is, Spot doesn't leave the building at his regular time. Race keeps tabs on the feed for almost an hour before Spot emerges at the front. Race sets off the laundromat alarm then, and watches with wicked satisfaction as the guys scatter and miss Spot walking around the building and out of sight. Another win.

He considers creating a program that would render a hacker or official dispatch unable to track a car from the traffic cameras. It might come in handy, he justifies, when he reminds himself that it's illegal and he did sign a contract against using his tools for personal gain.

But, if nobody knew… 

For the first time in months, Spot enters the building without Race because Race never left the building; choosing instead to stay up late and then early into the morning coding a way to automatically block selected cars or license plates from the cameras.

Race looks at his shoes, sitting neatly in a pair beside his door. He hasn't changed since- he's not sure if it could be considered an argument- well, since Spot went storming down the stairs. He wonders passively if Spot would notice, if he were to visit the laboratories.

He does, later in the week, after purposefully avoiding Spot in the mornings. Spot stands up when Race walks in and immediately leaves, hissing "you have no right to be here, tech wannabe," as he passes.

Race spends a minute awkwardly making conversation with Blink, who is situated across the lab, before escaping back up the stairs.

The night Spot's apartment is the victim of an arson is the night Race realizes, _holy shit someone's trying to kill him._

He does some digging into the news network and police reports and finds that the blaze was started on the seventh floor, in the apartment opposite to Spot's, and if Spot hadn't been out at the time he probably would have been caught inside.

He also finds a few photos with the exact same group of men Race has been warding off for the past month. They're accompanied by a dangerous-looking woman in a business suit, and Race feels himself tense up automatically. Whoever she is, Race doesn't think she's trying to keep Spot alive.

Now, Spot trades spending his nights between the building and Jack's place, and Race knows that as soon as the group finds out that he's still alive, they'll come back full-force. He inserts some more faces into the alarm recognition bank on the front door cameras and tells Jack to keep a lookout. Jack, thankfully, doesn't ask more than he has to, and promises not to tell Spot unless something worse happens.

Bits' transfer means that Race has been promoted. He works in the same office opposite Specs, who is wonderful company, and management has instructed him to look in on some field missions. He's even been given an earpiece, something that only the higher-up technicians receive, and so far he's been happy.

Leading field missions is something he's working towards, and while he's currently working a lot on gathering files for different reasons and getting (on-the-record) acquainted with the building systems, he never passes up a chance to watch the more experienced mission leads work.

In fact, his coffee intake has gone up almost fifty percent. He thinks it should be concerning him, but it doesn't.

The first time Race's alarm goes off, he's asleep on his desk, extremely close to knocking his mug off the edge. The blaring tone is streaming straight to his earpiece and violently jolts him out of his disjointed nap, and he catches the mug right before it falls onto the floor.

On the screen right in front of him, a bright red box is flashing at him. JACK, it says. Race knows exactly what it means.

He calls Jack immediately, and Jack immediately picks up. "They won't leave. They're outside the door and pretending to be missionaries or some shit and I'm trying to make it like nobody's here but they aren't going away.”

Race curses. "I'll be right there."

"What the hell are you planning on doing?”

"Whatever I can." Race only just manages to slide on his shoes before running out the door of the office. He stays on the phone with Jack the entire way.

"They'll see your face.”

A girl on the stairs curses at Race as he shoves past her- someone from the communication department, he dimly thinks, and apologizes. "I don't care if they do. Honestly.”

"You've known Spot for how long now? And you're already willing to risk it?"

"Actually, he's mad at me." Race finds that there's only two or three other cars in the lot, and decides that it must be either much earlier or much later than he thought. "Been mad at me for a while. Doesn't stop me. Whatever weird friendship it was was good while it lasted.”

Jack blows a breath through his teeth. "Jeez. What did you do?"

"I said something about his childhood. I already did the math, it's a touchy subject, I get it. But it wasn't legit, we were joking back and forth and it just slipped out. How was I supposed to know?"

"Spot is like that. He'll come around when he finds out about this."

"No," Race hisses, abruptly. "He's not going to find out."

He's driving as fast as the limit will allow, meaning Jack's apartment is under ten minutes away. Jack scoffs quietly. In the background, there's a loud knock at the door, and Race hears Jack curse.

"You're crazy if you think he's not gonna find out. Be glad he's asleep right now."

Race glances at the clock. 5:02 AM. "How could they think that missionaries do their rounds at five in the morning?"

"Dunno," Jack says.

There's silence across the line as Race drives. Jack's soft, lightly concealed breathing is punctuated by subtle knocking on the door.

I'm nearly there," Race says, cutting through the quiet. "Two minutes, max."

"This is a bad idea," Jack reminds him. "They're trying to make me think they gave up. You showing up, plus your face-"

"I don't care about them seeing my face!" Jack shushes him frantically. Quieter, "I'm sorry, but it's true.”

Jack seems to give up then.

Race pauses at the top of the stairs on Jack's floor. "I'm here."

"Good luck," Jack says, and hangs up. Race is on his own.

He smooths over his shirt and keeps his phone in his hand, and then wanders amicably out the door and runs almost directly into a well-dressed version of the men he saw outside the building. Swallowing the urge to let loose and punch them all, he fakes a smile and looks the first one in the eye.

"Good morning!" He says brightly.

"Morning, sir," the man says. "Can we interest you in the teachings of-"

Race cuts him off, smiling. "Not at this moment, thank you. I'm just here to make breakfast for my girlfriend. She had a long night last night, you know? Works as a nurse, last night was pretty tough because they had a triple car accident across Ninth- I'm sure you heard of it, it was all over the news- and she had to stay like four extended overtimes, or something. Anyway, she really likes waffles, and I thought maybe I'd make some for her because things have been pretty rough lately- that's why I'm here so early. But I don't know if she'd prefer blueberry or strawberry. I was hoping to surprise her before she woke up, she's a really heavy sleeper, couldn't wake her up even if I tried. There's just something about blueberry waffles, you know? But there's also strawberry, which is kind of one of her favourites? I'm not sure. What do you think?"

The man, speechless, gapes at Race for a moment, and Race is sure Jack is probably trying desperately to hold in laughter inside the apartment. He keeps smiling naively, waiting for a response. 

There is none. The man's face goes from stunned to confused in a matter of seconds. Race's smile widens. "Oh, by the way, you're in front of her apartment. Excuse me, gentlemen."

One of the other men steps forward, places a hand on the leading man's shoulder, and Race watches his finger tap a rhythm into his jacket. _Solid intel. He lies._

Race resists the urge to answer outright. 

"By all means," the front man answers smoothly. "Could we interest your girlfriend in the same?”

"I'm afraid not," Race tells him. "She's quite the devout Catholic."

"We'll just have to see," he says. His tone is almost predatory. Race feels his plan slide out of his mind. "After all, I'm sure your girlfriend wouldn't mind a few visitors."

Race ignores this and turns to the door, getting his office key out of his back pocket and praying that Jack knows what he's trying to do. The key doesn't exactly fit into the lock, but as soon as he pulls it out again he feels the slightest click and knows that Jack's unlocked it.

Jack is out of sight when he swings the door open. The men follow him inside almost robotically. Race has never been inside Jack's apartment before- Jack is a generally closed-off person, and although they've built up a sort of jokingly reliable friendship, this feels like a stupid invasion of privacy. 

"Sorry, Jackie," Race says down the hallway where he assumes Jack is keeping Spot quiet. "These guys insisted."

There's no response, so keeping up with the ploy, Race glances apologetically at the men sitting stiffly on Jack's sofa. "Sorry, I'm gonna have to go wake her up. Like I said, heavy sleeper."

He wants to scream at them for even having the gall to enter the apartment, but instead he hums slightly and moves into the hallway, where Jack is waiting.

Race lets out sigh he's been holding since the alarm came through. "Jesus, they're not gonna leave.”

"So you're pretending to be the local not-gay great boyfriend who makes 'Jackie' waffles when she's overworked?”

"Shut up," Race whispers, shoving Jack's shoulder. "Improvisation is an art form. But I seriously don't know what to do now."

"We could fight them," Jack suggests. Race levels him with a look and he shrugs. "It might be our only way out of this, now that you've so gracefully let them into my apartment. Jesus, why did you say you had a girlfriend when you knew there were no girls in here?"

"I don't know! I panicked!”

There's shuffling coming from inside the bedroom, and both men look at each other, horrified. _Shit. Spot._

"You handle him, I'll get the guys out," Race says quickly, and nearly runs back into the main room, greeting the men once again with a high-pitched, "Heeeyyy guys! Look, so, bad news, apparently when I called her last night I heard her terribly wrong and she did have to go in this morning, we both must've just missed her!”

There's an air of challenge to the last sentence- for the men to refute it would be for them to admit they'd been there since Jack called, and that would cause more trouble. Somewhere down the hall, there's a thump, and Race tries to pass it off by kicking the table behind him in acted impatience.

 _Then, more tapping- they must really think he's dumb-_ still lies. search, keep him. __

__

__

Oh, hell no. Not on his watch.

"Sorry gentlemen," he says, smile dropping completely off his face. "I can't let you do that.”

He takes advantage of the split second it takes for them to connect the dots to flit to the other side of the room and punch one of the men in the temple before spinning around and sinking a foot into the stomach of the man beside him.

It's kind of brutal, the ease at which Race can fight three, albeit unprepared, trained men. Of course, Jack steps in to help (and okay, maybe that's why it was so easy) but Race finds the situation under control rather quickly.

Then, of course, Spot wanders into the main area and freezes, eyes locking with Race's, and Race kind of suddenly wants to throw up at the change from confusion to bitterness.

Jack awkwardly screams something unintelligible and herds Spot back into the bedroom, yelling, "IT'S CALLED A DREAM, SPOT. GO BACK TO BED. IT'S SATURDAY."

"It's Wednesday," Race tells Jack as soon as he appears again. 

"Shut the fuck up. And get these assholes out of my apartment."

Race almost screams on Thursday when Spot still says nothing other than a clipped "asshole," with the coldest tone Race has ever heard him use. He doesn't acknowledge the incident, but Race knows that a lot of the new tension right now is from that.

Race doesn't care. Of course he doesn't. Why would he?

God help him, if anything he cares too much.

The thought makes him want to rip out his teeth.

He focuses his attention on trying to find out more about the men but he comes up with absolutely nothing. No records, no facial recognition, and the fact that these people barely exist kind of scares him. It makes them harder to trace, harder to arrest, and definitely much harder to figure out.

They manage to go about two weeks before Race is, once again, asleep at his desk as the alarm rings. This time it's about two thirty in the morning and Race, despite having a keyboard imprint on his face and thirty-four coded pages of just the letter m, is alert and typing in seconds.

A pit forms in his stomach as he reads the words in the red box: LOCKDOWN.

This isn't the alarm in his earpiece. This is the alarm in the building.

"Fuck," he says to no one in particular, scanning the inside feeds for any sign of intruders. There must have been a breach somewhere, by someone who either didn't set off the facial recognition or had hidden themselves well enough that the cameras wouldn't catch them.

If this was a coincidence and had nothing to do with Spot, Race would probably kick something, preferably the intruders, and maybe even apply for the police force just so he can visit them in prison every day and yell. 

But it's too close to everything else that's been going on, and Race is willing to bet that it's connected in some way.

The timeout sheet tells him that he, Spot, and another technician Race is just beginning to get to know (appropriately nicknamed Buttons) are the only ones still in the building. If he texts Jack's, the field agent might also somehow appear, though he would have to fake the lockdown diffusion clearance he doesn't yet have.

Race texts him anyway. Then, he sends a quick message to Buttons telling him to stay put and be careful, and leaves his office, locking the door.

On the monitor: there is no response. The room flashes red, but there is no one around to see.

Race makes his way through the dark quickly and quietly. In lockdown, all automatic doors have locked and sealed, and the lights are off. With the clouds covering the moon, the windows are just as deep as the remainder of the building. Race counts his paces in the rooms with no light and he listens for any sign of intrusion.

He stops at the atrium. This is one of the few areas in the building completely open, and slightly lit by outside streetlights. 

To get to Spot's office he can go across the atrium or go up the stairs and across the third floor, which would take much longer.

He doesn't have the time to circle back upstairs. They could be already searching the floor where Spot sleeps.

They could also be waiting to shoot him as he sprints across the open area.

Then he thinks of Spot, no doubt awake now, against four men with the obvious intent to kill, and launches himself over the atrium floor before he has time to convince himself otherwise.

Nothing tries to kill him while he runs, and he calls it a success.

Race feels like he might throw up. Lockdowns have always made him uneasy, but now that he's in a real one and going towards the threat, everything seems so dreamlike and unreal. He's already left his shoes a floor above, kicking them off haphazardly as he slammed into the stairwell door and leaving them there, and now he's near silent as he skids across the main hall of the med floor.

Somewhere close by, he hears voices that are making no effort to be quiet. It sets off warning bells in his head. He runs faster.

"…not why I left. You know that."

It sounds like Spot. Race supposes it makes sense, that Spot knows the people who are trying to kill him. That doesn't, however, make the situation any less tense.

"She put the order out. Sorry, kid, this has gotta happen."

This sounds extremely foreboding, but Race is now very close to the area of conflict, so he wills his legs to run faster and ends up crashing into Spot just as the men open fire. They land on the ground behind a desk, sheltered for a few blessed moments as Spot comes to terms with what happened.

Race scrambles off of him and crouches at the ready. Spot is still rigid on the floor, a stream of curses flying from his mouth.

"You're not dead," Race says, the first words in months. "You're welcome."

Spot, staring at the ceiling, flaps his hand a couple of times as a response. 

At the next sign of movement, Race leaps to his feet. It's not that he's necessarily tall, at least not compared to some of the others who work in the building, but Spot is quite small, and it looks like he'll be covered. 

The men stop, holding their silenced guns just in front of Race's chest, and hesitate.

"Innocents not in the job description of an assassin?" Race asks, before he can stop himself. 

"Move," the frontman says gruffly. Race knows he recognizes him from the encounter at Jack's, but neither make any word.

Race's mouth continues to betray him. "You know, you'd probably get somewhere a lot easier if you were just a bit politer about it. Causing a fire? Super uncool. Breaking in and creating a whole panic situation in one of the more important buildings in the city? That's gonna cause problems, man."

"What the fuck are you doing?" Spot hisses as he sits up. Race waves his hand. He is painfully aware that certain death could befall him any minute and he's in no particular mood to die. 

They won't kill him, part of him thinks. Another part of him knows that if the cost of Spot's life is large enough, they could do anything. He's caught in a staring contest between three gun barrels, and it's only a matter of time before he blinks.

"We have no problem with you," says the man on the right. He sounds gentler, but that's never a perfect measure of character. Race laughs out loud.

"My problem is that you're trying to kill him." Spot stands up finally, and as Race hooks a thumb behind his shoulder he feels a breath against his neck. "And I can't exactly let that go lightly."

"Step away," Frontman says, as Spot says, "get out of the way." There's a small shoving at Race's side that he pointedly ignores. He brings his chin up in what he hopes is a confident position and stands his ground, looking the leader in the eye and saying nothing.

The thing is, Spot can't exactly push Race aside because Race is standing directly in the door frame of the lab. The stakes are laid out clearly to everyone involved, and the men look like they're preparing to shoot.

Then, the one on the right taps something, almost too quiet to hear, against his trigger. Race knows that they've switched code, but he had never expected it to be to something as easy as-

"Really? Binary?" he asks, a smile stretching wide across his face, before snapping his mouth closed.

Behind him, Spot breathes, "You've got to be kidding me."

Left Man growls. "Wanna see how smart you are with a bullet in your head?" Front Man holds an arm out, but it seems half-hearted. As level as he seems to be, Race knows he's getting on their nerves, especially since his blueberry waffle rant from the apartment.

He's looking down the barrel of one gun, while two more are pointed at his chest. He looks up after that, notices a slight shadow against the wall near the stairwell, and grins.

"So what was your decision on the blueberry waffles?"

The air explodes.

Race realizes, somewhere amongst the din, that Jack probably saw his text and contacted the diffusion team for more urgency. It's not standard procedure, by any means, but perhaps exceptions were made. In any case, Race is very much not dead, and while he's still not sure he's not dreaming, the not-dead part is something he can live with.

Pun intended.

He glances backwards at Spot, who is suddenly towering above him, all traces of anger washed from his face. He looks terrified now. Race doesn't like the look. 

"You're alive," he says. "Be glad."

Spot grows more concerned. Jack appears, with an actual diffusion team instead of just a group of people thrown together, and immediately curses.

Suddenly, Race thinks, oh, that hurts, and looks down to see a red stain spreading quickly across the lower left corner of his shirt.

Oh.

Well, _holy jesus fucktart on a cracker_ that hurts, so Race looks up at the people surrounding him and grins. "Gentlemen. Proud to be of service."

Then he watches the ceiling fly into his line of sight and passes out.

Race doesn't remember much of what happens next, and he thinks it's good that way. He remembers flashes of night, of running footsteps and _ouch_ and hearing Spot trying to explain what happened. He remembers trying to listen to that part. He remembers not getting most of it.

The wound isn't critical. It's a skim, something that created more blood than damage, and for the moment he's okay. They've given him a laptop while he recovers so he can still work, and Specs comes in often to keep him company.

He's in the chair now, Specs across the room, throwing a small rubber ball back and forth. Race is typing with one hand. There's a knock at the door, and Race lets the ball bounce off the wall and roll under the bed.

Specs gets up. Race stares at his screen. The door opens and there's no sound, which is odd, and then Specs pushes past the person in the doorway, leaving them open to Race.

Spot holds a cup of coffee.

"You can come in," Race says, still not looking. Spot shuffles once and closes the door behind him. He puts the coffee on the table next to Race.

They don't talk.

Finally, Race reaches over and picks up the coffee, taking a sip. Spot breaks the silence first. "Thank you.”

"Lockdown diffusion would have found you," Race says tightly.

"They would have found me dead.”

Spot is standing beside the bed, looking for the world like he'd rather be anywhere but there. He looks out the window, at the floor, studies the ceiling tiles. He does not look Race in the eye.

"What's the point of this?" Race asks, raising the coffee. Anger is beginning to curl in his stomach. "Why are you giving me peace coffee if you're planning on going back to being an ass?”

Spot lifts his head and stares so intensely at Race that hefeels his breath leave his lungs. "Why would you ever break protocol and sprint to risk your life for someone who's been nothing but terrible towards you?”

Race takes his sip and swirls the coffee on his tongue, letting it cool before swallowing. "You ignoring me is not considered terrible behavior," he says carefully.

Spot snorts. "It hurt you and I know it. Besides, it wasn't just that.”

”Are you trying to apologize or are you just listing the reasons why I'm debating pouring this coffee on your head?"

"Right. Sorry." He laughs. It kind of makes the anger in Race unfurl, just a little bit. Race drinks again, and he waits.

"I guess I'm also trying to apologize. I- I should know that most people are a lot better and more normal when it comes to the topic of childhood, and the way I reacted was unfair. I'm sorry.”

"Apology conditionally accepted."

Spot blinks. "Conditionally?"

"Make your peace treaty coffee better than crappy hospital coffee and we'll be okay."

This time, Race's mouth shifts into the smallest of smiles, and Spot laughs outright, and when there's just a dribble of coffee left in the cup Race overturns it onto Spot's head.

Spot has to be removed from the room after that, because apparently Race is straining his injury from laughing at Spot's scorned expression.

Three days after Race is released and back in the office, he and Spot reach the entrance to the building at the same time.

"Going to pass without saying anything?" Spot asks jokingly as Race begins to unlace his shoes. Race looks up.

"Thought that wasn't much of a thing anymore," he says.

“You want it to be.”

Race straightens up after that, letting his converse dangle between his fingers. "Yeah. You're right." He mimics the cheeky smile Spot gave him on the second day and walks toward the stairs, feeling Spot's eyes on his back and for once, being perfectly okay with it.

Spot yells, "Asshole!" as an afterthought, evidently also remembering the previous conversation. It has no heat to it, just a playful tone, and when Race reaches the stairs, he turns around to see Spot smiling widely.

It's a nice smile.

(bonus)

"You never did answer my question," Spot says, watching Race from across the cafe table. "Why did you do it?”

Race leans back, contemplates. "There's more to you than just 'asshole', Spot," he answers finally. "And I couldn't bring myself to leave that person behind when I knew what would happen. I don't know why they were trying to kill you and I don't need to know why, but whatever the reason, you don't deserve it now.”

Spot is silent for a long time.

"There's a reason why I asked them to keep some stuff off my personnel file," he says. He picks up a croissant from the packet and takes a bite, chews, and swallows. "I didn't exactly have the peachiest time growing up."

Race snorts. Spot coughs.

"Anyway, I got kinda mixed in with bad crowds, street gangs and such. I needed to support my mom, see, and there wasn't much for a tiny kid to rely on, so this was the best way I could find. I was like, thirteen, when this lady appeared and she told me she had a way for me to support us, and of course I went with it because what else was I going to do?"

Spot pauses, and Race gets the feeling that he's intruding on a moment reserved for Spot and Spot alone. Still, Spot looks at him like he wants him to stay, wants to tell the story.

"I had to do- increasingly bad stuff. When I was seventeen, I finally managed to come out to the authorities about what was going on, and they cracked down hard on that little group. They must have been watching me for a while before this. I'm more surprised I haven't already been killed."

Race wants nothing more than to look Spot straight in the eye, maybe hug him, and say, "Thank you for trusting me with this." He doesn't. The situation is still raw, tense, and the live fuse on the table between them will not be put out with soft words just yet.

"What happened after you told?" Race asks instead. "Was the group put away? What about the lady?"

"Most of them went to jail," Spot says simply. He frowns. "I don't know if she ever did. She obviously still has control, if she's up and about and burning my apartment building down."

Race sets down his drink hard on the table. A drop of it tips over the rim and dribbles down onto his fingers. "She's not going to get to you again."

His conviction makes Spot nearly choke. After drowning the offending pastry crumbs with coffee, he gathers his haywire thoughts from the situation, and all that comes out is, "Thank you."

"Anytime," Race says, and when he says anytime he truly means anytime, and Spot knows it.

They finish their coffee in peace. It's much better than hospital coffee.


	2. Why Working Overtime is Bad For Your Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Specs and Race invent something that should, theoretically, be the most fun the technical division has ever had in the history of the agency.  
> (Theoretically.)

There's a sort of comfort in knowing that when procrastination ends up ruining your life, you're most definitely not the first person to whom it's happened. You're most definitely in the same boat with probably at least a hundred other people in the world. However, procrastinating studying for a test and procrastinating updating the building's alarm system are two very different things. 

The office was built in 1899 and originally included only two floors and a basement. In 1940, it started a major renovation in which the remainder of the levels were added, and it changed from an office building to an intelligence agency due to the war. Modernization happened in 2005. The alarm system was coded most recently in 2014. Race has all the blueprints and old versions pulled up on the screen to his left, and is typing across the screen on his right.

It's been two years since the whole incident with Spot, and now Race is assistant division leader while Specs is the official leader of the technical division. 

They have a different office now, not quite shared but there is still a door between the two, and posters are tacked over any empty space on the walls. Race's been leading missions and creating programs and tinkering with circuitry in his spare time, and life has never been better.

Also, Spot brings him coffee every morning. It started as a return gesture for saving his life, but now it's just routine. Race doesn't find the need to tell Spot that the debt was repaid a long time ago.

"Coffee for, uh, Limp Elmo?" someone calls from outside the closed door. Race snorts and rolls his chair to the door, greeting not Spot, but Mush, one of Spot's lab partners. "Sorry, Spot is working on something that may or may not explode if he takes his eyes off of it. He sent me to bring your coffee instead."

"Limp Elmo," Race says. Mush shrugs. "Thanks for putting up with Spot's insults, you're a champ."

"As long as they're not directed at me," Mush says, and Race laughs. 

"If you manage to go your entire career without getting a Spot Insult, I will forever admire you."

Mush grins. "Is that a challenge?" he asks, and when Race pokes him, he backs up and starts to head down the hallway. Race waves.

Instead of updating the alarm system, Race knocks once on the door to Specs' office and opens it. Specs swirls in his chair to face Race and throws a plastic ball at him. It bounces off Race's chest.

"Fuck off," Race says, in lieu of greeting. Specs grins at him.

"So," Specs says, ignoring the subject. He turns to his desk, placing his hands next to a stack of blueprints. "Installation sleepover. Possibly the greatest idea we've ever had."

Race traces his hand over the stack of paper. He's surprised, in a way, that somehow he's managed to find the agency and get launched directly into a world of computers and superintelligence that he never wants to leave. _It's a miracle,_ he thinks. He looks at the blueprints and follows each wall, each electrical cable, each unit of measurement. He's not sure he's seen anything more beautiful.

"I'll be glad to have this prototype in place," he tells Specs. "Then Spot won't have to send someone up here to insult me. He can just shoot the message through the system."

Specs throws back his head and laughs. "You've got a point. Meeting with Blink is a hassle."

Blink is the head of the scientific division- something that encompasses Spot's biochemistry as well as medicine and any other sort of sciences being worked on in the laboratories. The lab floor is five tall floors under the technical floor and neither group mixes unless they happen across the break room at the same time. 

Thus came to life the prototype of a communications system, to be installed in most rooms of the building, making inter-office communication much easier and much more reliable than email. 

The first small gray box sits in the corner of Specs' desk. Race picks it up and examines it. 

"The result of months of planning and insane teamwork," he says in an excessively large voice, like a man in a movie trailer. "The… frankenspace inter-office memo system!"

"We need to change the name."

"I dunno, I like frankenspace inter-office memo system. FIOMS."

Specs raises his eyebrows and plucks the box from Race's hand. "Back to the matter at hand," he says. "This is happening, what, tomorrow? And we've still got a list of things to do."

Race peers over Specs' shoulder. There's a large sticky at the top with a bulleted list written in his immaculate printing, and the first point on it is 1. SNACKS.

"Are we using the office budget for that?" Race points at the list. 

"You betcha."

Other points on the list include 3. PLAN TEAMS SO NO ONE GETS HURT, 4. BLANKETS?, and the final point, 8. ACTUALLY TELL PEOPLE ABOUT IT.

Just thinking about it makes Race excited. This freedom is one of the reasons why he never needs to leave the agency. Everything he wanted is here, in the job description. 

He takes a large gulp of coffee, making a point in his head to ask Spot how he makes the coffee so good every single time. It's literally break room coffee, Spot had told him at the beginning. Maybe it was the fact that this specific cup was addressed to "Limp Elmo".

God, the new comm system was going to make insulting Spot back so much easier.

Race wheels himself back to his own office soon after, prints out a notice, and pins it on his door. Then he pins one on Specs' door for good measure. And, because he feels like it, the bulletin board in the hallway and the stairwell door and three other doors as well.

Buttons laughs when he watches him put two up right next to each other. He's in the doorway of a room he shares with Albert, hands deep in his pockets. Race winks at him.

Suddenly, tomorrow can't come fast enough. 

Race makes a point to go home the night before, because he needs clean clothes and food. Staying at the office for 36 hours straight admittedly seems both fun and hellish. Staying at the office for 36 hours with a group of the smartest yet most immature people Race has ever met sounds fun but extremely exhausting. 

(Who's the one who's basically letting his division run wild on the entire building? Oh, right, it's him. Good to know that if something gets fucked up, it'll eventually pass up the chain of command.)

 

To: ass

are u finished working with dangerous explosive chemicals? I gotta ask u to put em away tomorrow, we're doing some fun stuff down in the labs

From: ass

If your team is doing stuff in the lab, I'm scared of the results

To: ass

dw we're just putting in a thing that'll let me know when your face is particularly good for insulting

From: ass

Good to know, dickwad

From: ass

Guess it isn't gonna check on your face too for me

To: ass

nooooo why would i ever turn my computers against me they are my children

From: ass

Breaking news: race births inanimate objects

To: ass

listen here, fucktart

Race grins at the dots that mean Spot is typing. His reply is a simple **> :(** that makes Race laugh out loud. He's standing against the edge his bathroom counter, watching his phone with one eye through thick-framed glasses, and it's a wonder that he's about to sleep when it's just barely past midnight.

The next morning, they make intense eye contact as they walk inside, and Race almost walks into a door. He has a fat blue duffel bag slung around his shoulder that crunches when he hits it against the wall, and today when he takes his shoes off he places them on the flattened top of the bag.

"By the way," he says to Spot before they part ways. "Limp Elmo? Really?"

Spot smirks. "Believe me, I can try harder. See you around, cupcake."

Race nearly walks into another door as his thoughts are full of the word cupcake. 

"Fuck," he groans, crashing into Specs' office without warning. His chair trails behind him. "He just called me cupcake, and I don't know if that's better or worse than Limp Elmo."

Specs turns hurriedly from someone else, who Race hadn't noticed before he stumbled in. Said figure raises his eyebrows. "Limp Elmo?"

Race makes direct eye contact with the short Asian boy from the communication division. "Everybody's gonna know about this within a day, am I right?"

The boy nods, a large smile stretching across his face. He takes his phone out of his pocket and types a quick message, then blinks at Specs, who is watching between them. "I gotta head back up, Kat's waiting on me for some special conference call of some sort. Have fun tonight."

He swipes the hat off Specs' head and places it haphazardly on his own, then flies out of the office. Silence.

"That's Rome," Specs explains. "We went to school together. He just transferred here after a couple years working down in Florida."

Race sits down and crinkles. 

They spend the next few hours preparing as best they can. Each comm box gets assigned to a room, and teams are made to be assigned to each box. Blankets are spread out across both office floors, and Race reluctantly opens his duffel and hauls out bag after bag of junk food. "Jesus, the custodians are going to hate us."

"They love us," Specs says, except he says it doubtfully, and Race takes that to mean that Specs isn't all that sure after all. 

Finally, the end of the work day comes, and as Race holds a mug engraved with a rainbow flag on it (today's nickname stayed stubbornly as "cupcake", much to his chagrin), the few people belonging to the technical division begin to approach the offices.

Buttons is first, and he sits down in the very centre of the room, crossing his legs and watching Race with a cheeky smile. His demeanor never seems to waver far from the happy-go-lucky kid Race was introduced to; the boy manages to design some of the more brilliant pieces of equipment the agency is considering putting into use. 

His office-mate, Albert, comes crashing in next, sitting with a thump right next to him. Race barely has time to say hello before another two bodies enter the room: Henry, quietly taking a spot near the corner, and Jo, who makes direct eye contact with Race and then sits on his desk.

R knows the entirety of the division on a first-name, I-would-get-ice-cream-with-you basis, so when a girl named Alicia joins the group of people on the floor, Race knows it's time to begin. Specs knows this too and clears his throat. All pairs of eyes immediately go to them.

"This," says Race, holding up one of the small gray boxes, "is a Frankenspace Inter-office Memo System box. You've all been unknowingly contributing to it for the past six months. Congratulations. Tonight, Mark I is going online."

The resulting swell of excitement among the crew is exhilarating. Next to Race, Specs rolls his eyes. "It's a temporary name. Anyway, we've divided everyone based on who's least likely to kill each other-" he stares quite obviously at Jo, who smirks- "and we are going to cover this entire place in a massive, completely overnight installation party."

Race has never been prouder of his decision to accept the job offer than as he watches the faces of all the people in front of him. Everybody here has grown into a collective family, no matter where they came from or where they want to go next. Like Race, some are just out of high school. Some have degrees. Some are older and completely comfortable working where they are.

He waits in the background as Specs reads out the pairs. As promised, everyone has been assigned a place and partner they Will Not Destroy.

 

“Report,” Race says into his earpiece after everything is sorted out. A chorus of voices chime in all at once. Specs rolls back in his chair and makes exasperated eye contact through the doorway, and Race laughs. “One at a time.”

“We’re ready to go,” says Albert, who is on the comm floor with Jo. Alicia and Buttons chime in next, from the med floor, and then Henry and his partner Pea on the field floor. Race rubs his hands excitedly. “Specs?”

Specs stands up and smacks Race on the back of the head. Race grins at him. “Alright. Remember, first team to get online gets first dibs on the snacks of their choice and extra protection rights during the inevitable games that will happen after. You all may begin.”

The boxes in their individual offices are already online, and as Race and Specs work along the tech floor, they send messages from each office as they go. 

>> message incoming:  
i bet ill finish all my boxes before u do, u blind nuggetfucker

>> message incoming:  
hanging out with spot has made your vocabulary stronger, I see

>> message incoming:  
that boy is vicious and u know it

>> message incoming:  
oho I think you’re the one who knows it best huuuuuuuuuhh

 

They spot each other at opposite ends of the hallway after finishing up the rest of the floor. Race narrows his eyes at Specs, who does the same.

They sprint.

“I thought they called you Race for a reason,” says a triumphant Specs, standing in the doorway between their offices panting. “Unless it’s ‘cause you lose all of them.”

“The reason is far, far away from that. I may not be unfit, but you can bet I haven’t won a footrace in years.” 

"How many people have you tried to race? That's the real question."

R makes a 'zero' sign with his hand, stands up, and pokes Specs in the stomach until he moves aside. They sit together and watch one of the screens, which shows the signal of each new box coming online.

It's nearing ten o'clock when the first team, Alicia and Buttons, move onto their last box. Chatter on the earpiece has been loud and humorous, and at one point Race is pretty sure Jo sent Albert to attempt to stall Henry. 

The final box on the med floor goes online, and the resulting cheer from said team is intentionally broadcasted on the channel. "First dibs goes to the med team," Race announces. Somewhere within the cheer, Buttons yells, "GIVE ME THE GUMMY BEARS, BABY."

"Goddammit," Jo says, and suddenly their final box blinks into existence as well. "We'd have won if my partner could actually hold a screwdriver."

"Maybe if you had actually given me the right one it would have worked a little bit better," argues Albert, still on the earpiece. The two of them, like Spot and Race, have a friendship built on insults and quips directed at the other. Albert oozes sarcasm, and Jo is (as Race would describe him) "a little shit".

"Fuck off, you said flathead and you know it."

"You heard the 'f' and tuned out. I said phillips."

The last dot on Henry's floor appears as well and Race interrupts the thrilling conversation between the friends to inform them that there is a pile of junk food waiting in his office. He drags his chair to Specs' side, shuts down his computers, and only two seconds later a pair of sprinting footsteps pound down the hall.

Wordlessly, Race tosses the entire package of gummy bears to a flushed Buttons, who groans and nestles into the corner, holding the container protectively. 

Jo steals the entire bag of chocolate mints and sits directly across from Buttons, laughing through a full mouth at the way Buttons tries to inconspicuously move his bears away from them. On the other side of the room, Alicia is draping blankets around Albert, who is glaring at her yet hiding a smile. Race, Specs, Henry, and Pea are in the midst of an animated conversation about the eligibility of cats in professional workspaces. At 10:40, Buttons lets out shriek and scrambles backwards and out the door, gathering everyone's attention. 

Jo holds a handful of gummy bears. 

Somehow, five minutes later, it has progressed into a game of Find Buttons (And Get His Candy), and everything is free game. 

As it turns out, Buttons is scarily good at avoiding security cameras.

At this point, Buttons is on his way to building a signal jammer from materials he's picking up from various labs (they'd see him bolt across one screen and then one from another floor not two minutes later) and Jo is sitting in their office chair, directing Albert and Henry as they watch the footage.

Specs and Race are together, quietly moving about the building and disregarding the cameras- however, knowing the code for the memo boxes they installed seems to be key when Race figures out how to project the image of Jo into rooms Buttons is most likely to hide in.

Alicia is somewhere. Nobody's quite sure where. She and Pea are also managing to avoid the cameras, and whether or not they're getting gummy bears is anybody's guess. Pea is wickedly good at hacking on her phone, though, so whether they're avoiding the cameras or just looping them is anybody's guess.

The lights go out.

It's 11:20, dark, and at first Race laughs because shutting off the lights is not a terrible idea on Buttons' part, but then the main earpiece channel switches on.

"Guys," Jo says hurriedly. "Get somewhere secure. Now. Go."

Race and Specs stare at each other. "Lockdown," they say simultaneously. The door next to them flashes- a laboratory door, warning patrons of imminent locking- and they bolt inside. 

On the channel, Jo is cursing loudly. "Buttons. Where is he? I could find him, oh god, he might not know it's a lockdown."

"It's pretty evident, don't worry," Race says to the panicking agent. Others, likely in their own secure areas, voice their agreement.

A shuffle comes from the table beside Race and Specs. Specs grabs the first thing he can find, a screwdriver, and wields it in front of him. 

Then, a light shines- a phone flashlight- and Buttons' face is illuminated in the dark.

"Lockdown?" he says quietly. Relieved, Specs lowers the screwdriver and nods.

Race taps his earpiece. "He's with us, Jo. He's fine."

"Oh, thank God."

It's silent after that. Race reaches over to take a handful of the quickly dwindling gummy bears. Buttons doesn't pull away.

"Guys?" Jo says again. Their tone has the same amount of foreboding as the original lockdown warning. "I'm locked out of the server."

"What?"

"I literally can't get on." Their voice wavers. "I'm blocked, something's blocking me, and I don't think it's ours."

Race and Specs share a look. They have a quick, silent conversation comprised only of hand movements and excessive pointing. Specs smacks Race in the ear.

"I"m coming to see what I can do," Race says to Jo, holding onto one of Specs' wrists while the other is pinned under him. He hears a vague sound of affirmation from Jo and glares at Specs, who is looking murderous.

"I'm the department head, I should go," he hisses.

Race scoffs. "You're the department head, you know everything. Besides, I basically created the alarm system. You're smart, figure something out from here."

"I don't want you going alone!"

Working his jaw, Race mulls over the possibilities. The fact that he's ready to fling himself back into a compromising lockdown situation after what happened last time is quite unbelievable, but Race finds a sense of comfort that it can't get much worse than the results of that one.

Well. To an extent. And to him only. Actually, there's more stakes riding on this situation than the last, because of the amount of workers present. If something happened, it would affect not just him but everybody-

_Get a grip, stop thinking, and go._

As soon as he releases Specs the boy springs to his feet, dusting himself off and taking a step towards the door. So Race grabs him again, takes his shoulders and twirls him back to face the interior of the lab.

"For fuck's sake, guys," Buttons says quietly from the corner. "Just go. Jo needs help, and I definitely do not. You'll be fine."

"Right," says Race. He lets go of Specs. "Good luck."

Specs picks up the screwdriver he dropped in the argument.

They turn and go.

 

"Christ, it's dark," Specs says. He digs in his pocket for his phone and holds it up, letting the dim light of the screen illuminate the nearly pitch-black hallway. They're trying to find their way back to a stairwell, something that's harder than expected when the maps in both heads have been turned around. 

Finally, the light lands on a door with a stairway sign above it. "Hallelujah," Race whispers. 

Those doors are not built to close quietly. Both Specs and Race cringe as it lets loose a loud click that echoes in the entire concrete space. 

Race flashes horribly back to running through the building during the first lockdown, trying to find his way to Spot in the dark before anything bad happened. He stumbles as he runs. Then, he thinks about the now, and shoves the stubborn thoughts to the back of his mind. There'll be time to deal with traumatic experiences later. Now: offices. Jo. Computers.

They hear a door echo above them and flatten against the wall. Race turns down the volume on the earpiece and asks Jo, "What can you see right now on the screen?"

"Cam feeds," Jo says. The low tone of their voice is already an indication of the drastic situation. Jo is never quiet, never inside themself like some. "I see you guys. Hello."

"See anything on the intruders?"

"Barely. Sometimes there's a flicker. I don't know where they are. They could be right outside, I'm not sure, I'm against the wall now. I can still see the feeds but I can't do anything else."

Specs glances at the door. They're on the second floor, used only for rental offices and conference rooms. Nothing of importance is ever on floor two. There is no gray box. 

"We're on our way," Race repeats. "Stay put."

"No, I'm gonna streak down the hallway and scare the intruders off," Jo bites out. "Stay put. No shit."

Sending him a they-have-a-point look, Specs detaches himself from the wall and looks up the stairs, gaze following the empty staircases up to the fourth floor. _Clear,_ he mouths to Race, and they continue. 

At the third floor, there's a lot of banging like someone is kicking an equipment locker, and their pace quickens. 

They reach the door to the tech floor in seconds. A shadowed form passes the glass on the other side of the door and Race nearly shoves Specs back down the stairs.

"We'll be fine," Specs whispers. "You know how to fight."

"We should've picked up stuff from the field lockers," Race retaliates. "We'd be safer."

Specs holds up his screwdriver. "We had no time. We work with what we have, that's what we're good at. Open that fucking door and let's figure out what's wrong."

So he does. 

The hallway is currently empty, but the floor is not deserted. Small shuffling sounds coming from adjacent hallways and rooms give away the presence of people- not agents.

The first office they come across is Pea's: being the newest, she's been stuck with the office closest to the stairwell because it's loud and there's lots of traffic. Her door is locked. At request, she quickly overrides it. 

"Jo," Race says as Specs takes control of the keyboard. "What can you access?"

There is no response. "Jo," Race repeats. The radio silence is disconcerting.

Specs curses. "It freezes whenever I try to get into the mainframe. I can't do anything, not even change her desktop configuration."

"You're division head. Don't you have a code or something?"

" _It's not working,_ " Specs reiterates firmly. "I can't do anything."

The realization dawns on Race sharply, deadly. "It's because there's manual interference. Someone's trying to get to our stuff first."

The only solution evident is to find whatever the problem is and deal with it physically. It’s not an ideal course of action. But they’re locked out of the servers, service and connection is out, and Race isn’t sure that the lockdown signal even reached the diffusion team.

“Shit,” Specs says, but he agrees. 

Race makes sure that Pea’s computer is locked before they leave, and she shuts the door behind them. 

Now, Race is in the front, holding out a blade he found in Pea’s office- he’d return it later, no questions asked- and Specs is at his back, brandishing the screwdriver almost comically. It’s a poor defense against whoever is clearly equipped to gather information from their system, but it’ll have to do. 

Jo’s office is the next one they pass. Jo is not there.

Specs hazards a quiet “Jo, please report”, but he is met with dead air. Others listening in say nothing as well. He gives Race's back a small shove, meaning _keep going,_ and they go.

And suddenly- everything explodes.

Shots fly and embed in the walls above and around the two agents. Race ducks and rolls, hoping to god that Specs is doing something similar and not getting himself killed. The source of the shots are not yet visible, and they are surrounded by doors and hallways and the entrance to the testing hall. Specs yells an okay and Race picks himself up and runs, focusing only on the doors to the testing hall. There are weapon prototypes in there. With the prototypes, he can protect himself.

More shots follow him. Each crack is punctuated by a bullet burying itself in the carpet or wall around him as he zigzags across the floor. He takes comfort in the fact that he’s not running at the gun, and also that whoever it is is not targeting Specs. 

One comes dangerously close to his ear. He flies at the testing hall doors, manual key at the ready, and just manages to unlock it and slide in before another bullet rams into the door.

_Calculation: 4 seconds total before area is breached again._

Race looks around, mind racing and calculating and coming up with possibilities long before they come into his concrete mind. He picks up a gun-shaped object. When the door bursts open again, he’s ready.

_…_

_,or not, &,_

_Well, we found Jo,_ his mind supplies unhelpfully, after a short moment of panicked static. _And the shooter._

Together, unfortunately, and Jo's wide eyes stare at Race as he points the gun at the person behind them.

From what Race can see, Jo's got red patches up and down their arms, and for a fleeting moment he's proud of them for trying to work and ward off whoever had inevitably burst into their office. 

"Drop the weapon, please," says the figure holding the gun on Jo. "I would hate for this situation to escalate." 

"Sorry, buddy," Race says. He puts the gun down on the table next to his hip. "I'm not sure how your definition of escalation hasn't already been fulfilled."

"We just want our data. You and your coworkers will be left in peace."

Race snorts. "Says the person who just tried to kill me."

And _bless_ Specs and his screwdriver for being quiet and unnoticed as he approaches quietly from the back and grabs the intruder's gun hand, wrenching it up towards the ceiling as it fires.

Jo manages to duck out of the intruder's grip and kicks him before flying across the room, leaving Race open to pick up the gun once more.

The figure bolts as Race pulls the trigger, and a glowing blue flash emits itself from the gun as an electrified bullet buries itself in his leg. He jerks once and falls to the ground, cry cut off. Specs, who is right next to him, pokes him with the toe of his shoe.

"So that's what it does," Race murmurs, examining the parts of the gun with vague curiosity. "I remember approving this a whole back. Nice job, Jo."

"It was mostly Alicia," Jo says, shaken. 

Race makes a sound of approval and puts the safety on before sticking the gun in one of his side pockets. They drag the unconscious, masked figure into the testing hall before locking the door and moving on carefully.

With some prodding from both Specs and Race, Jo heads back toward the stairwell quickly and quietly. 

"We'll be fine," Race says with conviction. "Now we've just gotta find whoever's hacking and make them stop. I'm guessing they'd be in our office."

They turn the corner to their hall and automatically drop low as a new figure comes into view. This one is right outside the door to their conjoined office. Race feels a flood of satisfaction with being proved right, but it's quickly pushed down by a _get out of my stuff_ feeling.

He shoots the guard in the leg as well. The guard collapses. If there's anybody inside the room, they do not check on the guard.

Specs holds out his fist. Race bumps it, and they stand up and fling open the door to their office without a second thought.

There is nobody at either computer. 

For a moment, Race panics, because the first conclusion he draws is that they're being hacked remotely by someone who basically _is_ a computer, and there's nothing anyone can do to keep all the files sheltered from prying eyes. _This is it. This is the end of his career._

But there's more subtle ways to access a rival system. Ways that, for example, do _not_ involve breaking into a heavily secured building with guns. When, technically, there shouldn't even have been anyone inside.

Ways like- "Hardware," Race says. "Gathering the data for them."

"Shit."

As they are in Race's side of the office, he claims his own chair and starts trying to ward off the imminent deletion of data while Specs begins to search the computer towers for the offending piece of machinery. All is silent except for the sound of typing and breathing. 

"Found it," announces Specs. Then, "Fuckhole."

"You're nearing a S-level of insult creativity," Race says. He swings his chair around to look at what Specs has found. The light Specs is shining on it is shaky at best, but it's just enough to see the USB-shaped stick that is residing inside a small port near the bottom and back of the tower.

Specs looks at him once, then explains, "I've seen this before. If it's forcibly removed it'll destroy the system. We've got to either make it believe it's done or wait it out."

"How many others are there?" Race is already typing again, attacking the USB bug with renewed vigor. "We don't know how long we have 'till someone comes looking."

As if on cue, there's a shout from down the hallway, and Specs gropes the side of Race's leg until he finds the pocket with the gun. The door opens with a loud bang. Once again, they are at a stalemate.

"Step away from the computer." The man at the door, masked and aiming a silenced gun between the two agents, is the first to talk. 

"Not standing," Race says distractedly. Someone else must have taken control over a different office, because the hacking has doubled its force in a way that shows evidence of human keystrokes. He grits his teeth. "Therefore, can't step away. Excuse me, a bit busy right now."

The man considers this, repositions, and shoots. Specs shoots just a millisecond later, causing the man to collapse on the ground with another cut-off yell, but it's masked by Race screaming " _Motherfucker!_ "

The rightmost monitor, the only one showing the coding process, is now showering sparks through the newly-made bullet hole in the centre. 

"That won't attract attention at all," Specs says. 

Race scowls. "I'm allowed to curse when a piece of my equipment has been shot and destroyed. You'd do the same."

"Would I?"

The answer never comes. Instead, they stand at the door, waiting for some sort of signal that the data parasite has finished downloading. No other intruders appear, but Race is certain there are more.

Finally, fifteen minutes later, there's a _ding_ so quiet it's nearly missed among the ambient sound. Almost immediately after, someone rounds the corner and ducks as Specs shoots, bringing them close enough to crash into him and reach for the gun.

Race scrambles under the desk as the figure, a woman, grapples with Specs for the gun. He reaches for the USB and pulls it out, keeping it tight in his hand as the other picks up Pea's knife.

Then he rockets up and joins the fray.

He's not quite sure what happens next. He knows that the woman is extremely skilled, the gun is discarded soon after, and suddenly there are two sharp objects, neither of them in Race's hand. Something swipes across his face as he pulls back. Somehow, he's got two open hands again. 

He fights back. So does Specs. They've got the advantage, and it's only a matter of time before they overpower her.

Race comes back to reality standing over the woman, unmoving on the ground, within arm's reach of Specs. "Is she dead?"

"No," Specs says. 

They stand, breathing heavily, for an extended period of time.

"Well," Race says.

There is blood running down his face. _I should figure that out,_ he thinks. Specs stares at him, then at the woman at their feet.

"Is that it?"

"I think so."

Specs puts a hand to his ear. "All clear soon, guys. Hang tight, I'm gonna lift the lockdown soon."

There are sounds of affirmation from the line. Race puts a hand to his cheek and draws it away, staring at the line of wet blood that covers his hand. "Fucking hell."

He keeps his hand on his cheek and shuffles back to his own office, reaching for an extra t-shirt inside his duffel bag. The blankets are crumpled and dirty and there is a bag of chips crushed on the ground. Race sits down on an empty space on his desk, holds the shirt to his face, and sighs.

"We're gonna need to get rid of these guys," Specs says from the other room. Race groans in response. "Where's the data parasite?"

"I dropped it," says Race. He can't bring himself to care. "It's probably under the desk or something."

"We may need it."

Specs' access to the system was restored after Race had pulled out the drive, and he lifts the lockdown code with a few quick keystrokes. All at once, the lights come back on, leaving the two of them squinting in the sudden brightness.

"This'll make the stick easier to find," Race says, then takes the shirt off of his face and gapes at the coppery stains that have somehow spread all over it. "Do we need to put it back?"

"Unfortunately, yes." Specs opens folder after folder to be greeted with nothing but emptiness. "This son of a bitch took everything."

Jo is the first to appear at the door. They're still pale, and Race drags his chair over to let them sit down. Their eyes go straight to the cut on his face. "Are you-"

"I'm fine," Race says, waving it off with the hand still holding the bloody shirt. "You?"

"Somewhat," they say, rather unsteadily. "New experiences, and all."

"I'm sorry," Race tells them honestly. He turns to continue looking for the USB, which is under the chair, before Jo can say anything else.

Alicia and Pea come next, stepping gingerly over the body in front of the door to Race's office. "Everything okay?"

"We're fine," Specs says from his computer. "Could you guys possibly pick up the dude in front of that door and drag him out of the way? We'll deal with them all later."

"There's someone looking kind of dead in front of the testing hall," says Albert, who appears with Henry in tow. Specs levels a look at him. 

"We know," Race says. He's under the desk, watching the drive flash and then let out a nearly impossible-to-hear whirr. "We'll figure it out. You guys relax. There should still be chips left."

Buttons is last. He looks tired, but he still holds the container of candy. "There's bears too, if you guys want."

Jo stands up abruptly, takes the container out of Buttons' hands, and throws him into a hug. 

"Hi," says Buttons, disgruntled. Jo mutters something into his shoulder, and Buttons nods. "I'm all right," he says quietly. 

Nobody sleeps for a long time. Race and Specs make sure the shots on the intruders are bandaged for the night and then lock them inside one of the storage units on the field floor, using stored tranquilizers from the lab to keep them asleep. They get back to the office as Buttons, wrapped in a blanket, begins to play an episode of _Friends_ on Race's undestroyed screen. Most of them are in a large pile in the centre of the room, surrounding Jo, who looks happier by the second. Henry sits contently on a table in the corner with his own blanket. 

They all look at home, and after less than a seconds' contemplation, Race and Specs join the pile.

 _Friends_ plays on through the night.

 

Spot walks into the building at exactly 9:00 that morning. He barely blinks at the gray box that has appeared on the wall of the lab, and squints slightly at the empty tranq case on the table. 

His next stop is the break room, to get coffee for Race. There are no new mugs in the sink, which he supposes is to be expected. He takes one from the cupboard, the best one he can find (a picture of a unicorn bursting from rainbow-coloured clouds) and fills it with black coffee and exactly one spoonful of milk. 

There is no movement on the technical floor when he emerges from the stairwell. This in itself is odd, because normally at least one person is making noise in the testing hall and Specs and Race are usually yelling at each other through the wall.

Also, _that's a bullet hole._

Spot tries to make a point not to question what goes on in the technical division, but it's tough when the holes seem to be more frequent as he passes the testing hall, which is closed and _locked._

All the doors are closed as well, but when Spot presses his ear to Race's office door he hears the quiet sound of clapping and the _Friends_ theme. He knocks. Many people groan at once.

It takes a few minutes and a bit of cursing and Spot isn't quite sure what's going on when something crashes, but he manages to push down the smile that's forming on his face as the door flies open.

Race stands with crooked glasses, a blanket cape, and a glazed look over his face. He makes a grab at the coffee before Spot can say anything. 

"Long night?" Spot teases. Looking him straight in the eye, Race groans loudly.

Spot's eyes flick down to Race's cheek, where an angry line is just beginning to scab over. He feels the teasing personality drain out of him. "Jesus, what happened?"

"There was a break-in," Race answers flatly.

Spot resists the urge to reach up and run his thumb over the cut. Instead, he tears his eyes away, taking in the huddle of techies on the floor, mostly asleep. _Found them._ "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. We've got a bit of garbage disposal in storage unit 2, though."

"Garbage dispo- Race, what happened?"

The tiredness on Race's face is evident. His voice doesn't raise. "Like I said, there was a break-in."

 _Screw it,_ Spot thinks, and lifts his hand and spreads his palm over Race's chest. He feels Race's heart beat against his thumb. It's reassuring, as he looks over Race's the living-death expression.

"You're okay, though?"

"I will be," says Race, but there's also a sort of intensity in the way they lock eyes: Spot feels a wave of protectiveness that he knows is not his own, it's Race's for the team behind him, but for a moment he feels it directed at himself. Not in a threat way, but in a _you are part of the team_ way.

Then Race nods once, turns around, and shuts the door, the episode of _Friends_ playing on in the background. 

"I'll talk to Darcy for you," Spot says through the door, referring to the man on the management team who handles the timesheets. "There's enough people in the building. You can relax now."

He leaves the tech division to their peace.

 

Race sits on his desk opposite Henry, who is dozing against the wall. The coffee is doing the bare minimum in keeping him awake. In the middle of the room, Specs is fast asleep against Pea, who is also supporting a sleeping Albert on her legs and Jo on her stomach. Alicia is on Jo's other side, hanging onto their arm. Jo is the only other one awake, and they connect eyes with Race across the room.

"You can relax now," says Spot from the other side of the door. 

He seems to know exactly what to say, because before they know it Jo's eyes are slipping closed, and Race abandons his coffee on the table to join the pile once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jojo is nonbinary and you can pry that hc from my cold, dead hands
> 
> ahh! all the good happy positive reviews made me write this like 100x faster! this is so great guys, I'm so excited!!  
> next chapter: let's focus on some more spot action! (maybe some more supporting characters too? :D)
> 
> tell me your favorite parts! xx


	3. Explosives Not Recommended for Childcare, Study Says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor appears in Spot's office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is for my buddy raine who basically saved this chapter. thanks, you awesome person.

Spot walks into his lab, sees the face of sixteen-year-old David Jacobs, turns around, and walks right back out again.

He walks up six flights of stairs with an unwavering expression of _I’m not ready to deal with this today_ and only comes to a rest at the doorway of Race's office.

"Hey. Computer crayon. If you built some kind of de-aging machine in attempt to heal David, you could at least have the decency to give me a heads-up before dumping him in my lab."

Race spits over his keyboard. " _What?_ "

Spot takes this as an invitation to enter. "I'm saying that somehow, David has managed to heal himself and also become ten years younger, and you're the only person here who's both smart and weird enough to make something that could achieve that."

Turning slowly in his chair, Race takes in the look on Spot's face and bursts out laughing.  
"What?"

"You think," Race gasps, "I de-aged Davey? Oh, my god," he holds up a finger and dissolves, nearly falling off his chair. "There are so many things that I'm laughing about right now."

Spot throws his arms in the air and turns to consult someone else. Race holds out his hand. "Wait, wait. I might have your answer."

"It better not be that one of your team has built it because I'm still going to blame it on you."

"Nothing of the sort," Race says. He giggles and then hiccups. "I- Spot, did you talk to him at all?"

Spot doesn't answer.

" _Oh my god._ Jesus. Okay. Just, go back downstairs and talk to him and you'll get your answer. Christ." With this, Race starts to laugh again, and after watching him doubled over with a semi-amused smile, Spot turns on his heel and leaves.

Sixteen-year-old David is still sitting on the table, legs dangling, looking decidedly petulant. Spot sets his jaw, rolls his eyes, and says, "Explain."

"Finally," says the kid. "Nobody else is down here and every time I try to leave, the door locks me in."

Spot makes a mental note to ask Race about the new security protocols he put into the system. "What are you doing here?"

"I followed my brother's boyfriend. The one with the, uh," he gestures vaguely at his own arms, "crutches. I just want to know what happened."

After that, the points connect very quickly, and Spot blinks. "Wait, David has a brother?"

The kid waves.

"Shit," Spot says. He put his bag down on his own workspace and leans against the table. "I guess that makes sense. Name?"

"Les."

"I'm Spot. Back to the point, why are you _here?_ Two floors is a long way to go for someone who technically shouldn't even have had access down here in the first place." Spot points out the door, where across the hallway is a key-card entry box.

Les slides off the table, leaving Spot to gape at the height of the boy as he digs in his pocket. Davey's key card dangles from his fingers. "It was in his stuff."

Spot sighs. There's no way around it now. He gestures for Les to sit back down on the table and sends Race a quick message that just reads, "Asshole."

"You were wondering about David," he says. Les nods. "Why didn't you talk to Charlie? Seeing as you followed him here, and all."

"He knows me. He thinks I still think he works at the museum or something. As much as I appreciate the trying to keep me in the dark and all, I think I deserve to know why my brother is in the hospital with ten different sorts of knife wounds that do _not_ come from a mugging."

Spot swallows, avoids the question. “Who else knows you’re here?”

Les shrugs. “I have no idea.” Then he squints at Spot. “Avoidance is uncool. What happened to my brother?”

“He was stabbed,” Spot says.

“Well, no shit, Sherlock. I meant why.”

This is a question Spot isn’t sure he’s qualified to answer. He looks at his phone, where Race's response is _told you_ with a condescending :) that makes him want to throw it at Race's head. When he looks up, Les is staring at him with an angry yet pleading expression, one that Spot swears can only be pulled off by children and Race. “Jesus, kid. I don’t know all the details.”

He does. “You do,” says Les.

Blink slides into the lab that very moment, looks at Les, and says, “I thought you were in the hospital.”

The boy groans. “We do not look that similar.”

“Blinky, this is Les, Davey’s scarily smart and too curious for his own good little brother.” Les waves at Blink, who grins at him. “He has followed Crutchie here and is demanding answers. Please help.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Blink says. “Division meeting. It’s Monday, remember?”

“Fuck,” says Spot.

“Language,” Les says, but then hits the table leg with his ankle and hisses, “holy fucking _shitfuck._ ”

Spot glares at him. “Language.” He resumes conversation with Blink as Les makes a face behind him, imitating _language_ has he stares at the side of Spot's head. Blink collects a binder from his desk and thumps Spot on the back before heading out and up to his meeting.

"Fine." Les thinks for a minute, and then opens into a clever smile. "What is this place?"

Answering this, Spot thinks, will not cause him eventual destruction, so he says, "Lower Manhattan Intelligence Office. Welcome."

"Cool. Spies." Les has come to this conclusion himself and seems wholly comfortable with it. "So, my brother's a spy."

"Um," Spot says eloquently. "Kind of?"

Les is now vibrating with excitement. Spot is beginning to think he has made a very, very bad choice. "This is so awesome, oh my god! I knew there was a secret reason why my limp spaghetti brother was suddenly able to move the sofa without help." He thinks for a moment. "That means Charlie's a spy too. What about Jack?"

Spot lets out a pained sigh. It doesn't go unnoticed. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, kid," Spot says. He stares at the ceiling, letting his face go blank. "Things are just a bit tight right now. Nothing to worry about."

"Oh, I'm sure," says Les, dripping with sarcasm. He lets the issue go and jumps off the table.  
"Can I get a tour?"

"You're not supposed to _be_ here, oh my god."

"But I am. Really, are you going to send me home unsupervised? I'm a youth. Youth without supervision leads to trouble." Les grins, and Spot knows he knows exactly what he's doing. _Damn it._

Spot sighs. "We're going to go visit Race. He knows how to handle children."

"I'm not a child. I'm a teenager. Who's Race?" Still, he follows Spot out the door of the lab, and Spot is pretty sure Race is cackling all the way.

 

The clock reads 9:10am. Spot looks at it, pained. Somehow, it's only been ten minutes, yet Spot is pretty sure it's been at least two hours. _Jesus._

"Welcome to the techno-tower," Race says, swinging around in his chair enough to make a person dizzy. "Home of the two badassest people in this entire building."

"Badassest isn't a word," Spot reminds him, crossing his arms as he leans against the door. Les is scanning the office in wonder, eyes particularly drawn to the circuit boards and scrap metal on the open desk against the wall.

"Shut up, cupcake," Race says with most falsely sweet voice that Spot has ever heard. "You're the one who's been put on babysitting duty."

Les says distractedly, "I'm sixteen."

Spot wishes that Race would actually be helpful. He also knows that if he indicates anything of the sort to Race, he would never hear the end of it. It hasn't gotten to the point where it's worth it yet. Fortunately, Les is preoccupied with the myriad of tools on Race's desk, which gives Spot time to think.

The thing is, Spot isn't quite sure what exactly he's supposed to do.

Like, really, he's got a lot of work to do, none of which involves a kid. A teenager, at that. No matter how much Spot is sure he can handle himself, there's a lot at stake when it comes to handling explosive material around teenagers.

And it has to be the day where Spot is testing out an explosive theoretical serum. Christ.

"Can't you take him?" he pleads to Race. The technician raises his eyebrows.

"Someone not cut out for handling a child?"

"Sixteen," Les reminds them all.

Spot frowns. "Someone working with dangerous stuff in the lab today."

Race blows a breath out between his lips. He looks around the room, trying to think of something as well. There are problems everywhere, and he's pretty sure Davey would kill them all if they let loose his brother on the office. "What about Crutchie?"

"He went into a room and locked the door," says Les. "That's why I started wandering."

"Shit," Race says. "That's right. He's leading Smalls today. She's doing some final recon on that drugs bust we did last week. Kat made him do something 'cause of the whole Davey situation."

Spot slides down the door frame and sits with a thump on the floor. "Excuse me while I cry in a corner for a little bit."

"Overdramatic, don't you think?"

"You sent me six messages with caps lock and the words 'I'm Going To Die' when you made your pizza too hot. I didn't think the word 'overdramatic' was in your vocabulary."

Les has stopped paying attention to the tools and is watching the exchange, amused.

"It was burning my mouth! I don't see what the problem was!"

"The problem was, I was in a library and I had forgotten to turn my sound off." At this, Race's eyes pop and he bursts into laughter yet again.

"You're telling me you haven't set your notification tone back from when I changed it last month."  
Spot turns on the volume on his phone, which lets out a breathy sigh, and looks at Race with a flat face. "Fuck," says Race. "That's hilarious."

"That's on you," Spot reminds him.

Race smiles. He seems entirely gleeful at the fact that Spot hasn't yet changed back the tone he had set for him. It makes Spot feel proud, in a way, although he's not exactly sure how yet and he's not exactly sure why.

"So," he says, this time to Les. "If I let you stay with me at work, will that put me at risk of getting torn apart by your brother?"

"Oh, if anyone's going to yell at you it'd be Sarah," Les says passively, like the existence of yet another Jacobs sibling is a known fact to the two of them. "But she trusts me, for the most part, so it's good."

Spot sighs. "You know what, I'm okay with being yelled at. You can stay with me if you want."

"I get to watch dangerous experiments in action? Cool." This is another conclusion Les has drawn with minimal information that, yet again, turns out to be somewhat correct. Spot is starting to think that the entire Jacobs gene has been mutated somehow to make them smarter. He does not want to go through the whole polyglot conversation with another version of Davey.

Spot picks himself up off the floor and makes sure Les has fully detached himself from any sort of equipment that Race has in his office- there was at least one blowtorch on that table and that is not something Spot needs around his lab- and Race blows him a kiss as he leaves the room.

"I'm working on the composition of a weapons prototype we just issued last week," Spot explains to Les on the way down. "It's basically a sort of stun grenade, except more powerful and a bit harder to control. The mechanics are being worked on upstairs, where we just were. I get the job of controlling the explosion."

"That is super amazing," says Les, smiling widely. Spot feels a tug in his chest; growing up trying to fend only for oneself doesn't leave much room for any sort of sibling relationship. It would be good, he thinks, to have someone to work with and take care of in that sort of way.

He makes Les put on an extra coat he finds in the lockers, as well as probably too much alternative safety gear- but if he's going to be chewed out by one of Les's family members, he might as well have something to argue on his behalf.

Then, suddenly, hours have passed in the blink of an eye, and Spot is cleaning up his station and ripping off his goggles because it's time for lunch.

Les has actually been a lot of help, surprisingly: since Blink has his own division leader stuff to do and Mush is off somewhere with him, Spot's lab is otherwise empty. Having someone to not only talk to but to hold onto tools and share the excitement with their small but satisfying explosions is always a refreshing feeling.

They meet up with Race, who is somehow still spinning in his chair when they go up.

"Did you get any work done?" Spot asks, and Race stops just long enough to snort and say, "What do you think?"

"I don't know why I even bother," says Spot.

Race drags his heels along the floor until he's at a reasonable swing instead of a spin. He gestures to one of the screens on the wall. "See? I've been working on stuff."

"The screen right next to it is Atari," Spot points out.

"Shut your tiny mouth. I'm still working on system updates."

Spot's gaze sweeps over the array of mugs on Race's desk. _It's time for another purge,_ he thinks, then sails into the office and grabs all of them in a single movement. Les, at the door, makes no move to help as Spot struggles with the last two, finally stuffing them in the crooks of his elbows before staring at Race. "Up and at 'em, asscrack. We're going out for lunch."

Grumbling just a little bit, Race picks up his work bag and shoes.

On the way down the stairs, Spot lets Les gush to Race about everything they did.

 

They go for lunch at a sandwich place downtown. The booths are roomy, the food is good, and the friendliness is plentiful; something that Spot wouldn't have even dreamed of in his early childhood. He sits across from Race, with Les on his left, and the two of them are having an argument over some movie Spot hasn't yet gotten around to watching. In some ways, the teenager is more adept with his brain than him and Race put together, and it's all he can do to keep himself from outwardly portraying his awe.

"But you're telling me that he doesn't really exist," says Race, through a mouthful of chicken and baguette. "There's a lot of indication throughout the movie that he is a part of the surrounding world."

"That can be faked," Les explains. "The fact that he disappears every time there's a glitch is a coincidence a lot of people happen to ignore or don't notice in the first place, and there are points where he understands the whole techno-world think faster than a man his caliber should be able to."

"Special interest?"

"He says he works on a farm. I don't think the whole techno-thing would even be a part of his lifestyle before the reality shift."

Spot tunes them out and stares out the window instead. It's a bright day, a bit too windy for his taste, and leaves are blowing down the street next to them. The sky is a brilliant colour of blue, and any clouds have long since blown away.

A woman walks past the window corralling four children of varying ages, each wearing a knitted sweater with the same symbol on it- a gift, Spot thinks, or maybe just a way of keeping them all together. Across the street a couple sits on a bench, sharing a slice of pizza.

Life, for once, feels good.

Because Spot hasn’t always had something like this. He grew up on the streets, stripped to survival instincts for himself and his mother, and to be sitting next to his arguably best friend and a _friend’s little brother_ of all people, it’s a type of normalcy that he craves.

“Spot,” Race says gravely, breaking him out of his trance. “It’s a tragedy that you haven’t seen this movie. I’m going to text someone and get us the rest of the day off so we can go see it.”

Spot wants to protest, but if he’s honest, going to see a film with the two of them seems like a much better idea than anything else he can cook up in the lab. He’s made his notes on the grenade, and the rest of the tests can be finished up tomorrow- “Yeah, I’m down,” he says.

Les whoops. Race stands up with a small grunt, gathers all of the empty plates, and says, “Who’s up for a dessert round? I saw some sweet stuff on the menu.”

 

They go to the movie theater immediately after and buy tickets for the 2:35 show, meaning they have an hour and a half to spare. Instead of spending their time in shops around like normal people, Race and Les elect to run through the parking lots and count different coloured cars and play games with the license plates and play with items in outdoor displays. Spot feels like a parent, but he allows himself to join when Race yells at him to catch the beach ball or when he spots a license plate that matches their made-up criteria.

He gets caught up in the front display of a store that seems to defy the laws of gravity. “It’s time,” Race tells him, and then grabs his hand and drags him back toward the theatre without a second thought.

They buy popcorn for Les and then as a protest Les buys them candy (“I have a _job,_ guys, I’m not broke”), and they somehow find their seats without Race letting go.

Race proceeds to steal all of Les’s popcorn, and in turn Les eats over half of the package of fuzzy peaches. Spot, sitting at the end of the row, ends up with a handful of candy and not much else, but he can’t bring himself to feel any heat for it. Not when the show on the screen is surprisingly gripping and he understands where the arguments come from, and also, neither of them have let go yet.

He’s pretty sure Les noticed within the first two minutes, but the kid is a blessing and has not yet said a word.

As the credits roll, Race looks over at Spot once and does a double take. “Holy shit, are you _crying?_ ”

“What? No.” Spot tries in vain to wipe the tears falling down his cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dude, it’s fine,” Race says. He gestures at his own face, where in the thin light of the screen Spot can just see identical tear-tracks. “It happens every time I see this movie. Every single time. I saw it once on my own, once with Jack before he left, and then again when my sisters came into town, and each time I think I’ve cried like a baby.”

Reluctantly, Spot pulls his hand away from his face, biting his lip. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” says Race with full conviction, a small smile gracing his face. He watches the emotions in Spot's face change, moving from apprehension to settle on a sort of comfort, and then looks a moment longer before turning to Les and ruffling his hair.

“That wasn’t fair,” Les says, sniffing. “He deserved to live.”

 

To finish the day, they stop in one of the smaller neighborhood parks along the way, and Les climbs a tree.

“If you break yourself, we’re responsible, so please don’t,” Race shouts up to him from one of the lowest branches. He and Spot have partway climbed it, but Les looks like he’s balancing precariously on a branch that doesn’t look like it should even be able to hold weight. Les screams an affirmation. Race snorts. “I’m half convinced the kid is gonna fall just ‘cause we told him not to.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” says Spot, but he’s about as sure as Race is.

“I can hear you both,” Les yells. “You guys aren’t worth breaking an arm.”

“ _Wow,_ ” Spot and Race say simultaneously. They know what he means.

Race pokes Spot with his foot. Spot catches the foot in his hand and examines it closely. “Wow, Race. I didn’t know you were capable of wearing shoes for this long.”

Suddenly, Race's eyes spark, and he sits up as much as he can, pulling his foot back into his own control. “Oh, my god. Did I ever tell you that story?” In doing this, he has almost pulled Spot off his own branch, and the scientist struggles to balance himself while laughing. Race takes this as a _no, he hasn’t yet told the story._

He begins with “You know Smalls, right? The short badass girl in Field who basically trained everyone we know?” and then pauses as Les, curious, climbs down a couple feet to listen. “Right, so we were chatting one day at the end of my first year, and she says out of nowhere, ‘I dare you to put salt in a coffee and bring it up to Director Joe’. Who, of course, had just contacted me earlier in the week because I had been using Bits’ security level to fiddle with the mainframe again- hey, at least now I can do that legally,” he interjects in response to Spot's _you do that anyway_ face.

“Legally,” Spot says, with air quotes.

“It’s perfectly legal,” Race assures him. “Whether or not Admin would stop me if they knew I was doing it aside from security projects, I’m not sure.”

“They probably would.”

“ _Anyway,_ so the next day after I stop laughing at what I did, I say to her, ‘you’re on. Convince all of your field trainees that knowing how to properly sew is absolutely crucial to anything we do here at this agency.’ And a week later she comes back to me with a giant smile and a hand-sewed stuffed whale. We kept going back and forth, and-”

Spot holds up a hand, interrupting. “Hold on. _This_ is why Jack offered to fix my shirt when I accidentally tore my sleeve in his door hinge? Because he actually can?”

Race makes a conceding face. “Yeah, I guess he does. You’re welcome.”

“I thought he was shitting with me. No wonder he looked ready to fight when I said yeah, right.”

“That would do it,” Race agrees. “Anyway, that just kept going, and she told me once to go barefoot around the office until somebody stopped me. And, well, nobody’s stopped me yet.”

He pokes Spot in the leg again. Spot hooks a finger into the lip of Race's shoe and tries to pry it off his foot. Race kicks, not hard but with enough force to dislodge his foot from any normal-seeming human, but Spot hold on tightly until he has captured the shoe from Race's foot. His hand hits the tree with backwards momentum. When Race looks up, Spot holds a triumphant smile on his face and a single size-seven black shoe between his fingers.

“You’re a fucking testicle,” Race says with no heat. He scrapes the bark of the tree with his heel, getting the fabric of the sock caught in the ridges.

Spot's smile grows impossibly wider. “It’s not like you use them anyway.” Squinting, he gauges an angle between the branches and wonders if he could toss the shoe clear to the ground.

No, he’d probably fall out of the tree himself before managing to do anything else.

Les says, “I’m gonna try something stupid,” and before anyone can say anything he rockets himself out of the tree and into the air, straight towards the ground below. He rolls when he hits the ground, which Spot dimly thinks is a good thing, but he’s more preoccupied with the fact that the boy just launched himself ten feet in the air without any sort of preamble.

R, meanwhile, watches Les all through his descent to the ground in an almost comically mundane way. Spot chucks his shoe back at him and scrambles down the tree, cursing out the tree and the sky and everybody involved. Les is still curled up on the ground, shaking, and it’s a moment of panic before Spot realizes that he’s laughing.

“That was fun,” giggles Les, face in the leaves. “I’m gonna do that again.”

“If you break anything, I’m going to kill you before any of your siblings get the chance to murder me,” Spot warns, but he stands aside and lets any further dissuasion come from Race.

Instead, Race says, “You go, kiddo,” and climb down to stand beside Spot. Spot gives him a dry look. He shrugs. “If he wants to, I can’t exactly stop him. I’m old and frail; falling won’t do me any good.”

The obvious course of action seems to be pushing him over, so Spot does just that. “Old and frail, my ass. What does that make me?”

Race's leg shoots out and hooks behind Spot's until Spot finds himself on the ground as well. “A pile of bones,” he grunts.

“A pile of bones that’s gonna whoop your ass,” says Spot, and the resulting scrabble on the grass is ultimately what brings Les out of the tree to watch- because, as he would explain, two grown men wrestling in the grass behind a park is not something one sees every day. He boosts himself down and then sits at the base of the tree, watching with interest.

He also manages to catch some notable quotes on camera, such as “you fucking _toaster oven,_ ” and “ _how dare you call me a raw shit,_ ” among others.

Finally, after Spot has had more than his fair share of grass in his mouth and leaves are tangled in Race's hair, they stop, and lie on the ground side by side. Les joins them then, and together they make a T-shape in the otherwise empty field. Nobody speaks except for the breeze, which brushes just low enough to make Les’s nose twitch and the leaves framing Race's head to shift and flutter.

Things are calm, far away from the fast-paced life of espionage and hacking and experiments that create flames just a little bit too large. The trees sing in the cloudless sky, and next to Spot, a technical genius with a penchant for hacking lies, unperturbed by the world.

Spot is comfortable.

When Les finally breaks the silence, it's to say that he's due home soon and he'd find his way except he has no idea where he actually is, so a ride would be nice, please.

"Sure," Spot says, and as he pushes himself up to a sitting position he catches Race's eye. He's looking at him with something akin to curiosity in his eyes, but then he catches himself and tears his gaze away.

Race lifts a hand and reaches to Les, grinning. "I'm a frail old man. Help me up, child."  
Les snorts. "You could be my brother." He grabs Race's hand and pulls with an unprecedented amount of strength, sending them both nearly crashing down again. Race hoots. Les laughs out loud.

"Thank you," he says to Spot, after navigating the way through a dense maze of residential roads. "I feel a lot better about everything now. Now I know that my brother is actually doing this 'cause he wants to."

Spot gives him a two-fingered salute and Les stands tall with the same two fingers against his forehead. Then, at some sort of call, the boy flies into a blur of gangly action and scrambles inside the house. Spot chuckles as he drives away.

 

When they get back to the office, Race collapses into his chair and takes a deep breath. "Teenagers," he says.

"You were one when you got hired," Spot offers, but he smiles and drops onto a clear spot on Race's desk. Race has long since abandoned his efforts to get people to stop sitting on his workspace. Instead, he lets a long-suffering glance at Spot's seating choice convey his disapproval.

Then he returns Spot's smile. "Yeah, 'cause I'm smart."

"I have a _degree,_ " Spot says, sensing the dig at himself.

"Smartass."

Race looks tired, but somehow in a good way. The way that is subdued but still happy; unlike the irritable and testy sort of tired that follows a day of frustration or tension. He watches Spot with calm eyes that only barely betray the charismatic fire that is so consistently alight and an expression resembling serenity.

"Hey," Race says, softly and honestly. "Thanks for today. You didn't have to do all these things with Les, but you did. You never really struck me as someone who was good with kids, but," he shrugs. "Guess you're pretty cool."

"He's sixteen," Spot corrects, and they're both laughing.

It quiets after that, and in a rare moment of vulnerability, Race says, "I think you're my favorite person here."

"I'll take you home," says Spot.

 

He declines Race's offer to stay for dinner, but as he makes sure Race can actually get into his apartment building, he rolls down the window.

"I like you too, you sappy shit," he calls, and Race's resulting laugh settles warmly in his stomach as he drives away.

 

>> new message in group: David Speaks Ten Languages But Not Sarcasm  
david jacobs: OKAY WHICH ONE OF YOU TOLD MY LITTLE BROTHER I WAS A SPY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I'm sorry this took so long it literally took me a week to figure out what I was doing and then I had to rewrite it all cause it was veering dangerously into uncontrollable angst (if anyone wants that uncontrollable angst, I still have it saved, if you want me to post it later I can)
> 
> 2\. I'm also lazy as heck so this a) does not have the supporting characters I promised, b) was really just an excuse to write les as a teenager, and c) probably has some weird confusing background that I'm gonna clear up right now:  
> This was originally supposed to be set during hey, mr. no name kid (linked back in chapter 1!) until I realized that the timelines didn't exactly line up. So I changed minor details (aka. davey has not been shot, and jack is somewhere Else) and hoped that they made sense. Jack's in deep cover, which is why everything's tense around the three of them. Basically. That's it.
> 
> Anyway, I swear next chapter actually has a plan so I'm working on it!! Tell me your favorite parts guys, they really help me make it better! Love you all!


	4. Top Ten Texts You Might Not Want To Get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're going after Snyder again," says Race, and a pit forms in Spot's stomach.

Boyfriend. Race likes the way the word tastes in his mouth, the way his mouth shapes around the word with round cheeks and a flick of the tongue. He likes the feeling it gives him, sort of fuzzy and happy. Boyfriend. _Boyfriend_.

Right now, he’s standing with Specs in the door of one of the comm offices: the communications floor has the longest hallway in the building (disregarding Admin, because nobody wants to disturb the directors) and is perfect for Jack and Spot's bi-monthly chair races.

Spot is at the foot of the hall with Jack, elbowing him in the ribs, causing Jack’s laughter to ring out across the hall. In front of them, two chairs, stolen from two technical offices.

“Hey, Race,” yells someone from down the row of doors: Elmer, who works in the lab across from Spot's. “Put ten on Jack for me.”

Spot, hearing this, yells, “I’m going to make a hole in your coat, Elm. This is betrayal.”

Race takes out the notebook he uses to record bets and scribbles down what was just shouted at him. Spot's eyes narrow at him too, for a split second- then he winks, smirks, and pushes Jack into the wall. 

Thinking about the past few years, Race supposes it’s not exactly odd in any way. The spark between himself and Spot has always seemed so easy, so natural, and after the whole Someone Is Trying To Kill Spot endeavor, Race hasn’t found himself doubting it for a moment.

It obviously wasn’t a surprise, seeing as when Jack came back from his mission to find them making out in Race's office all he had said was “It’s about time!” rather enthusiastically before shutting the door behind him.

Someone- Smalls, Race thinks, because he vaguely remembers her fighting Romeo for the position- calls the beginning of the race in session. Her voice echoes across the hall, the numbers she screams clear from where she stands at the “finish line”- a strip of masking tape that cuts off the end of the hall. 

And everything bursts into action. Spot and Jack begin to sprint, and when they break the first tape line stretched between Jo and Albert, each jumps into their own respective chair.

Race sticks out his hand, and Spot slaps it as he flies past.

The hallway is overwhelmed with energy. People from all divisions are here- he sees Romeo make eye contact with Specs from down the hallway, and standing with Crutchie and Davey at the taped finish line is- astoundingly- Darcy and Katherine.

“How did they manage that?” mutters Specs, evidently catching onto the same thing Race has noticed. “Darcy never comes out of his office. I think I’ve only seen his face once, and that was when I was new here and Bits was giving me a tour.” 

“Holy hell, he’s been cloned,” Race says. Specs nods sagely.

A resounding cheer falls over the hall, and only then does Race realize that _whoops,_ he just missed half of the race as well has- apparently- the victory of his boyfriend. 

Spot and Jack shakes hands and Jack tries to shove Spot off the chair. “Typical,” says Race, but Specs is no longer listening: he’s now involved with a conversation with Finch, and his excited signing almost hits Race in the face. 

The stairwell doors slam open, cutting through the chaos with one fell swipe. Immediately, all action freezes. 

Pulitzer stands, perfectly and imposingly framed in the doorway.

His eyes sweep over the crowd, creased into a permanent scowl. Nobody speaks. 

“I need Tony, Spencer, and Jack in my office,” he says evenly, “and I was under the assumption that all of you would be attempting to earn your pay; apparently, I have made some errors in my hiring process.”

Jack stands up stiffly. From the finish line to where Pulitzer stands feels like the Green Mile, and it doesn’t help that the lines of people between himself and the two others called forward continue to watch him as he walks. The atmosphere feels like ice, and Jack thinks he must be walking in slow motion.

He forces a smile. “Glad to see you finally hanging around us common folk,” he says, addressing Pulitzer. 

Pulitzer’s glare deepens. “As much as it seems like you may have all the time in the world, I do not. My office, Kelly. Now.”

“Jeez, old man,” says Jack. “I’m on my way.”

At the finish line, all Spot sees is the backs of his friends as the stairwell door shuts behind them. The silence breaks a moment after, and among all the din of _what’s happening?_ and _that was close,_ Spot feels the bliss of his victory slide away. 

Good job, signs Finch from a few feet away. Spot puts a hand to his lips and extends it out- _thank you_ \- and picks up Race's office chair. The wheels swing lazily. Next to him, Davey does the same.

“Jack should use your chair instead,” Spot says conversationally. “Crutchie’s seems to be lacking in the speed department.”

Crutchie approaches just then, greeting Davey with a kiss on the cheek and Spot with a blinding smile. “Congratulations, Spot. That’s four in a row?”

Spot punches Crutchie’s shoulder lightly. “Three, actually, but it’s good to know that you have less faith in Jack then I do.”

“Shut up,” says Crutchie, and the smile does not dim even a little bit. 

 

When Blink stands, rips off his gloves, and heads toward the washroom, Spot knows that the meeting with Pulitzer has been released. He’s not sure exactly _how_ he knows, but it’s a sort of intuition he’s kind of proud of. 

He goes to the break room and finds his hunch proved correct. Jack is leaning against one of the tables talking with Smalls, who is sitting opposite him, legs dangling. She tips back her head and laughs, catching Spot in the corner of her vision.

“Spot!” she says happily. 

“How was the meeting?” Spot asks Jack, making a beeline for the coffee machine.

“Six times,” Jack offers as a response, and suddenly the reason why Smalls is so unabashedly gleeful makes sense. Jack keeps a running tally of the amount of times Pulitzer distinctly looks like he would rather be anywhere else- characterized by a hard crease in the brows and a long-suffering sigh- and for those who know about the tally, hearing Jack’s recount of the meetings are always amusing.

It’s not that Jack hates Pulitzer- really, the man is quite respected throughout the office, despite the lack of care he seems to display for his agents- but Jack knows that to break character now would mean he would inevitably be sent to the agency therapist. So, the tally continues.

Spot grabs two mugs from the cupboard and fills them both as he absently listens to the other conversation. Then, a spoonful each of cream and sugar, and Spot swipes up the mugs and makes his way up to the technical floor. 

 

“I’m leading Jack today,” Race announces as Spot walks into his office- no knock, as usual, no matter what may be going on inside. Race takes the mug (his favourite, the scrabble tile Q) and swirls the coffee in his mouth. Spot expects more, so he stays silent and waits for Race to figure out what to say.

Race swallows. “We’re going after Snyder again.”

“You _what_.” 

Spot crosses his arms and takes a deep breath, preparing to list off some Reasons Why This Is A Bad Idea. Race sees this, drops his mug with a heavy thunk onto his desk, and scrambles to explain. “I mean, it was all up to Jack- he said he was ready, he said it would be good for him, so Joe assigned the three of us- him, me, and Specs- to hunt him down.”

“The three of you.” Spot looks dubious. “That’s it?”

“Joe said, and I quote, _this is not a mission for many people. Snyder is made of stealth, and so must we be._ ” 

Race's expression composes as he picks up his mug again, but not before Spot sees the doubt shining through. “So, let me get this straight- our director is sending Jack- the only person here who is literally unable to handle any more time in Snyder’s possession without being ripped to shreds both physically and mentally- and the two most valuable tech nerds in the agency to hunt down a dangerous man who, if things go wrong, will have absolutely no problem doing _whatever_ he wants to get information. This seems like a bad idea.”

“I know,” Race admits. “But it’s set in stone. Nothing’s gonna change Joe’s mind.”

Spot feels anger claw its way into his chest. “Fuck him. I’m gonna go and say someth-”

“Maybe he’s got a point,” interrupts Race quietly.

“ _What?_ ”

“I mean, Snyder doesn’t expect three people. He expects thirty.”

Spot stares. The anger gets impossibly closer to his throat. “He knows Jack. And there’s only two of you. You said it yourself, he still expects someone.”

“But instead of sending a full tac team, Joe’s sending a bit of his best-”

“And what if Snyder gets his hands on _the best_?” Spot's hands are uncrossed and flying. The anger isn’t in his chest anymore, it’s hanging in the air, suffocating. “What happens then?”

Race sets his jaw. “What is it, then? You don’t trust _the best_ to be successful?”

“It’s called a contingency plan, Race.”

“It’s called doubting the capability of three of the most capable people in this building,” says Race sharply. “This isn’t like you. Since when have you been scared of risks?”

“Since they put my boyfriend and his best friend in extreme danger!” Spot makes no move to mask the words after they come out of his mouth. There’s a heavy silence.

If this were a different moment, a different argument, Race would probably manage to calm himself down and reassess the situation. But the anger in the air is intoxicating, and right now neither of them want to be let down from the high that is brought from the friction. 

So Race opens his mouth and lets the heat guide his tongue. “It’s a risk we’re all willing to take. Putting the good of the many over the good of the few, but I’m wondering if you really get that.”

“ _If I really get that,_ ” Spot repeats, loudly but without emotion. “Are you fucking with me?”

“I don’t know,” says Race. “How much do you care about the rest of us?” 

Spot sets his jaw and says, deathly quiet, “I’ve been here for four years, Race. If you think my frozen heart is unable to care about anyone here, I think there are some things you need to stop and think about.”

The sudden drop of volume seems to take all the air out of Race, like a kick to the stomach. “Spot,” he says.

Despite everything, Spot still manages to shut the door quietly on his way out.

 

If Jack or Specs notice that something is off, they don’t question it. Race prepares for the mission as he would any other; collecting all the files he has on the subject, sorting them by relevance, and committing floor plans to memory. Specs is in his own office doing final tests on the equipment and Jack is somewhere else entirely, either warming up or stealing final kisses from his boyfriends. 

Race considers finding Spot's lab before they leave. The path to the company garage is on the laboratory floor, and as they get down Race's feet instinctively point in that direction. 

He thinks, _we need time,_ and he thinks, _I’ll apologize when we get back._

“You coming, Race?” Specs calls from down the hallway.

Race repositions his feet, takes a deep breath, and walks.

 

They park the van on the outer edge of their satellite connection. The building they’re hacking is small and run-down, with peeling paint and rusted gutters and cracks crawling up the wall like wayward vines. Jack waits inside with a USB, searching for any physical evidence that would lead them to Snyder.

It’s a safe house that was never properly cleaned out, Jack tells them, drawing off old memories and what little connections the technical crew has been able to piece together. If they make a move on it now, they may be able to collect something before Snyder’s people come back to finish the job.

Race leads Jack, watching his movements carefully inside the block of downtown wreckage. Next to him, Specs types furiously, gathering what he can from the drives inside the building.

Somehow, as Specs drove and Jack sat in the backseat making tech jokes, Race found the weighted traces of his argument fade away. 

“It’s dark,” Jack tells Race conversationally. “And there’s too much dust. Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Positive,” says Race, but he looks to Specs for confirmation. His partner nods. 

The dot on Race's screen that means _Jack_ moves around a bit before Jack says, “Well.”

“What?”

“There’s a bit of blood on the wall.”

Race's phone buzzes with a picture message from Jack. He takes a split second to look at it and immediately throws his phone on Specs' lap. “Jesus, Jack. A bit?”

“Well,” Jack says again.

Specs tears his eyes away from his hacking to look at what has landed on his legs. He shuts off the phone quickly and says, “What happened there?”

Jack adopts a tone of voice that sounds oddly like Pulitzer. “Judging by the massive outburst of blood splatter on the walls and surrounding furniture, I think it’s safe to assume that someone is probably dead.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” mutters Race. He can’t see it, but he’s sure Jack bows in response. “Keep looking. I’m sure we’re all dying to get out of here.”

“I’m nearly in,” Specs says. His fingers begin to fly once again, and his screen fills with code.

Race watches Jack’s dot in silence, letting the field agent do his own work. Occasionally, he hears cuts of whistling, Jack’s way of keeping himself company while still paying attention to his surroundings. If Jack finds anything else, he doesn’t elaborate. 

Suddenly, Race's monitor dings.

“Shit,” he gasps. “Fuck, Specs, we got a problem. Thirty-six guns in the area. Thirty-fucking-six and I have no idea how we didn’t catch them earlier.”

He sees the swarm of red dots on the map, spread out over the entire satellite area, and curses. “Jack, abandon,” he says to the person in his ear. “Fuck everything and leave. There’s no time to question it, just sprint until you can’t anymore and someone’ll come find you.”

Jack, thankfully, does it all without protest. Both Race and Specs are hammering at the keyboards, still in range of the satellite, and they watch as a group of red dots stream into the building that was occupied not five minutes ago. The others, still outside, begin to spread.

Slowly, an idea forms in Race's head, one that he hates himself for but also seems more necessary by the second. Outlying red dots grow closer to their point of rest, and he knows that time is running out.

“Specs,” he says, and his partner notes the tone in his voice and stops typing. “Gather every single piece of physical evidence in this van and book it. Go find Jack and contact the guys back at the agency.”

Specs scoffs. “Hell no, I’m not leaving you here.”

Race turns and looks him straight in the eye. “You are one of the most important people in this agency. When I say you know everything, I mean _everything._ You know shit that I can’t even begin to comprehend. We can’t afford Snyder or his guys finding you.”

“But-”

“I’ll cover our tracks,” Race cuts off the protest. “Make it seem like we’re just some low-level hackers who don’t know what we’re doing. When I’m done, I’m going to speed out and follow you. Just find Jack and get him the hell out of here.”

As much as it pains Race to say it, and as much as it pains Specs to hear it, he stands up and puts a hand on Race's shoulder for the smallest of moments. Then, reluctantly, he begins to dig around in the van, stuffing the few pieces of identification present inside his bag.

“Good luck,” Specs says, and jumps out.

The red dots are getting closer.

Race hazards a quick text to Spot, a short ‘stay safe, ly’ (it isn’t eloquent, but there isn’t time for thinking) and bites his lip and keeps going.

 

Spot stares at his phone.

 _Stay safe, ly,_ the text reads. From Race, no doubt- no one else could open his phone, use this number, pretend to be the charismatic assistant technical director from the fifth floor.

He blinks. Reads it. Reads it again. When it still makes no more sense to him than it did the first time, he stuffs his phone in the pocket of his coat and makes a beeline directly for the elevator.

Spot knows what it means, literally. And maybe now is not the time to obsess over the fact that Race had just said _love you,_ even if it’s in two letters and wildly out of character and _on a mission_ , even though Race never brings his phone on missions, but Spot can’t deny that the smallest part of his brain is ignoring the warning bells and throwing a quiet party.

Mostly, however, this is a warning text. Something is about to go very, very wrong. 

He’s really not sure if the fifth floor is the way to go, but he presses the button anyway and hopes someone might have an answer for him.

Davey steps onto the elevator on the third floor looking more frazzled than usual, and deflates as soon as he sees Spot. “You know,” he says, and doesn’t press a button. The elevator brings them closer to the fifth floor.

“All I know is that this is the first time I’ve ever seen him text on a mission.”

“He texted you?”

Spot pulls up the conversation. Davey curses.

“Good lord,” he says. “This is worse than we thought.”

“What happened?” It doesn’t surprise Spot that Davey is nervous because the man seems to be chronically anxious at the best of times, but it’s more than that. Spot recognizes the anxiety of helplessness, of panic. He hasn’t felt it in a long time. He knows it brews right under the surface.

Davey hesitates. Spot feels a scowl grow on his face and tries to force it down with limited success.

“They went off the map,” Davey blurts. “All of them. No warning. And our tracer can’t be blown out by any conventional EMPs or anything of the sort- it can only be manual. Someone shut it off, and it sure as hell wasn’t our team.”

Spot connects the dots. “So they’re missing,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Well, shit.” It feels like a gross understatement. Davey cuts off a short, sarcastic laugh and wrings his hands together, squeezing out the worry and watching it drip onto the floor. Somehow, he has more worry because of it.

Spot has taken to repeating the word shit under his breath, and Davey compares it to a computer running error messages. Trapped in a loop of _something isn't working_ , with nothing to fix it except someone who really knows what they’re doing. Davey hasn’t read the manual for Spot's brain, and he doesn’t know what keys to press to help.

They arrive on the fifth floor. The doors open to an empty hallway, but loud voices can be heard shouting back and forth across office walls and open doorways. Things like _naught sixty-three on the van_ and _try our linux software wall_ and _twenty rpm, running now._ It feels like Spot has stepped into the brains behind a war operation- everything happens with a deadly sobriety, running quickly but not panicked, focused to a sharpened point. 

Davey makes his way to Crutchie’s office with practiced movements. Spot's instincts bring him to the end of the offices, where two doors stand closed: Race's and Specs', occupants disappeared. 

Spot tries the handle on Race's door and finds it gives in his hand. The office itself is a state of darkness in which everything looks just a little bit fuzzy, the only source of light being the filtered sunlight through the window. Something whirrs and another thing buzzes, and small pinpricks of coloured light blink at Spot from beneath the desks. 

The office felt like home to Race, and Spot can see why. The white noise, the dulled light, the sense of community from the other members of the division- everything was a part of Race. Spot understands that.

He stands in the same place he stood while they fought. In his head, he replays the words- _god,_ they sound so stupid now- and waves his arms halfheartedly. 

This time, when Race says his name, Spot does not leave. He stays, lifts his head as though he were looking Race in the eye, and his mind says _I respect your decision._

 

When Specs and Jack make contact again, there’s a collective sigh of relief that can be heard from anywhere in the agency. At the very least, they will have information, and that’s a start. Pulitzer sends another van for pickup. Jack and Specs are almost eight blocks away from their target area.

Race is nowhere to be found.

Spot volunteers to do Jack’s initial checkup before the meeting, if only so he can directly ask what happened before the inevitable hour-long debrief from Pulitzer and quite possibly the rest of the Admin team. Jack walks into the lab with his usual swagger, but his eyes are dimmer and his smile less large.

“Drop the act, Kelly,” says Spot as soon as he sees Jack’s face. Immediately, Jack lets his shoulders go and his face fall. The change is so sudden and so abrupt that for a fleeting moment, Spot wonders why Jack didn’t take up acting. The man would be good at it, no doubt.

“Have you found anything on Race yet?” Jack asks. The worry seizes his voice, makes his words come out with less of a punch and more of a whisper.

Spot shakes his head. Jack, in the middle of rolling up his sleeves, lets out a dejected sigh.

“They told me to get out,” he says, his eyes widening in recount. “Race said there were a lot of guns in the area caught too late. I didn’t catch anything between them after that, I was busy trying to get myself the hell out of there. Specs found me when I was running, and we went from there.”

“Did he tell you where Race was?” Spot can’t help himself from asking. 

Jack frowns. “He said, and I quote, _the asshat’s being a fucking hero_. But we had to keep going.”

Spot mulls over this information as he asks Jack if there’s anywhere he injured himself, and then if there’s any sort of medical treatment he needs. He’s well aware that this is not standard procedure, but Jack is more than capable of handling himself. Besides, Jack is very obviously itching to go find Crutchie and Davey, and Spot isn’t one to hold him back from that. He lets Jack go, takes off his gloves, and sits in the chair beside his desk.

It occurs to him that he never texted Race back.

He hadn’t said anything after their fight, not a single word. He found out they had left from a note on Race's door and a short, slightly sympathetic explanation from Buttons. The agent had walked away, hands in his pockets, before Spot could say anything.

“ _He’ll forgive you,_ ” Buttons had said from the end of the hall. “ _Part of him already has._ ”

 _I hope so,_ is what Spot had meant to say, but the boy had rounded a corner and was gone. Spot found no point in saying it to himself.

And now, look what’s happened.

Specs is getting a proper debrief and Jack is most likely with Crutchie and Davey as well. Spot sits at his desk, plays with a pen, and waits. 

Because of _course_ this would happen. It’s exactly what he was afraid of. And maybe he isn’t allowing himself to show it, but if he had only said something different, went out on a slightly higher note, then maybe he’d be able to breathe a bit better. Marginally.

At the very least, Race would know he meant well. Race would know he wanted to mend things, like they always did.

“I told you so,” he says to the empty room, because if he doesn’t it’s going to come out later at the worst time. “I _fucking_ told you so, Race.”

The fact that he’s talking to an empty room like some sort of mental patient doesn’t escape him.

The laboratory feels like a waiting room. At some point, Blink was called to a meeting with Specs, and he assumes Kath and Smalls are there as well. Mush has migrated to the other labs with Elmer and Dela and Skittery, leaving Spot alone. He is’t sure whether he’s frustrated or grateful. The pen he’s holding is open, has been the entire time, and ink lines cross his hand in awkward slashes of blue.

Then, the small gray memo box on the wall blinks, displays his picture, and the speed at which Spot rockets out of his chair and crosses the room makes him just a little bit embarrassed. He presses his thumb against the reader and waits for the message to appear.

_From Blink: Joe’s office. know where Jack is?_

He replies with _roof, probably_ and doesn’t bother with the elevator.

 

Director Joseph Pulitzer’s office could probably fit an entire conference with room to spare. It’s a large windowed room with stocked bookshelves and immaculate decorations and a large mahogany desk that seems to swallow the entire back half of the room. In the corner is a coat rack with polished gold hooks next to an umbrella stand. Spot feels like he’s stepped into a more wooden version of the white house.

“Afternoon, sir,” he greets bitterly, then goes to stand beside Blink. Romeo stands beside Katherine, for once as quiet and solemn as Spot has ever seen him, and Buttons is next to Specs. Smalls is nowhere to be found. The office is overwhelmingly and uncomfortably still and silent.

Spot wonders what it would have been like when Race gave the director salted coffee. He imagines the look on the man’s face and bites his lip, definitely not wanting to begin smiling in the middle of this meeting. Blink gives him an odd look. Spot waves it off.

Pulitzer sits pleasantly at his desk, hands folded in front of him. He had given Spot a short nod when Spot came in and now he waits, unmoving, eyes on the door. He is the only one who seems to be calm.

The door opens more gently than Spot would have expected, and Smalls is dragging Jack in.

“Hey, Joe,” Jack says in usual Jack fashion. He says no more, however, and the weight of the situation is not lost to anyone in the room. Spot has known Jack for years, and he knows when the man is scared. 

“Welcome,” Pulitzer says cooly. Smalls pulls Jack to the corner, looking like she’d quite enjoy punching him in the throat. Now, Pulitzer stands up- a move which would easily quiet the room had anyone been speaking- and moves in front of his desk, making imposing eye contact with everyone. “I trust you all know of our situation at hand and the urgency with which we must move to deal with it.”

It feels like he is talking incredibly slowly. Spot is ready to leave the building and tear the city apart himself in order to find Race.

“There are certain security protocols,” Pulitzer is saying, “that we must be sure to go over and carry out to the greatest of our abilities, both for our own safety and the safety of the agency.”

Spot tunes out and focuses on sorting out any and all information inside his head. The fact that Snyder is essentially untraceable, especially since The Jack Incident, immediately sets off warning bells. They had searched for half a year and found absolutely nothing. 

More than anything, Spot doesn’t want Race subject to the same time frame and the same horrors. There’s already been too much of that, and nobody is keen for a repeat performance.

Blink digs his elbow into Spot's side, bringing him back to reality. Pulitzer is watching him expectantly: “Are you quite sure you’re with us, Sean?”

“Yeah,” Spot says distractedly. “I’m fine. Keep going.”

 _Race would have laughed at you,_ his mind supplies helpfully, so Spot helpfully tells his mind to shut up.

“I trust you’ll have it under control,” Pulitzer addresses to Blink, who nods, so Spot does too. He’s not sure exactly what they were agreeing to, but he’ll figure it out. Across the room, Jack is giving him a look that says _I know exactly what it’s like._ He does. It doesn’t make the situation any less drastic.

The meeting passes in a haze of words and delayed reactions. Spot knows that everyone is going to work harder than ever- himself included- so reasonably, it would be nice if he could snap out of it. But breathing is hard enough as it is, so the rest will have to wait.

He makes himself two cups of coffee, and then realizes when he’s halfway up the stairs to the fifth floor that there’s no boyfriend to bring the coffee to. He goes to Race's office anyway, says “we’ll find you soon, asstruck”, and leaves the mug on the desk. Whoever keeps track of the break room mugs is probably going to yell at him eventually.

But, as he’s walking down the stairs drinking coffee from a unicorn mug he normally would’ve given to Race, he finds that he can start to breathe again.

 

 _It’s like his head is made of static. Black, grey, white, all flashes and fuzz and nothing quite tuned in properly. What’s around him? He’s not quite sure._

__

_Count:_

_5 things to see- open your eyes, Tony. Open your eyes._

_1\. darkness._  
_2\. a box._  
_3\. water on the wall._  
_4\. a door._  
_5\. nothing._

_4 things to feel- let yourself feel something, Tony. Be aware of your surroundings._

_1\. a hard floor._  
_2\. cold._  
_3\. metal, by his hands, around his hands._  
_4\. a headache._

_3 things to hear- focus, Tony. Focus._

_1\. drip. drip. drip._  
_2\. CLANKclankclankclankclank_  
_3\. screeeeeeeeeee_

_2 things to smell- take a deep breath, Tony. It’s okay._

_1\. a stench, like mold.  
2\. fear._

_1 observation about your surroundings- put it all together, Tony. Where are you?_

_1\. I’m trapped._

 

The van shows up the next day, cleaned out and dumped at the end of an alleyway across the city. The tracing signal has been turned back on, and for a few minutes it’s like they’ve found Race and all this stress has been for nothing.

But there’s not even equipment in the van anymore, let alone a person. Race is still painfully missing.

 

Spot is thoroughly frustrated. As much as he would like to believe he’s giving his all to the op and he’s helping, there’s really only so much a biochemist can do for a missing person. Going back to the scene would be akin to certain death- or, at the very least, make a new problem for the rest of the team to solve- so he can’t exactly whip out what knowledge he remembers from that forensic science elective course he took in university. Plus, they’ve already gathered what they could from the van, and that came up with a big fat nothing.

As much as he would not hesitate to go running headfirst into danger for Race, it wouldn’t help. So, Spot does idle work that he would be doing otherwise and occasionally running trace substance tests for whatever Smalls and Jack and the field agents manage to find. 

It’s late- almost nine o’clock- when Smalls reappears in the office, stripping off her tactical gear as soon as she steps foot in the door. When she goes to the training gym to cool down, the light is on. Spot is there on a weight bench, alone, earphones in.

He doesn’t even blink when she appears, although she’s not even sure if he’s registered her presence. She puts her hands under the weight bar anyway and waits for him to finish.

“Thanks,” Spot says, out of the blue, and shoves the bar up a final time to rest it on the hooks. Smalls blinks as he slides off the bench and wipes his hands on his shirt. “Why are you still here?”

“Just got back,” she says. “I need to let out some steam before I go home. Spar with me?”

“Didn’t you spend your whole evening fighting people?” Spot stands anyway and flicks on the lights above the sparring mats.

Smalls sighs. “I spent my whole evening _thinking_ I would.”

“That’s worse,” Spot agrees.

The break into a beginning fight stance.

“What are you still doing here?” Smalls asks, blocking Spot's retaliation to her initial attack.

Spot shrugs and just barely dodges the fist thrown at his face. “Didn’t feel like going home.”

Smalls hums, then performs a complicated maneuver that leaves Spot lying on the mat, panting. “I think that’s called avoiding your problems,” she says, sticking out a hand.

Instead of answering, Spot hooks his foot around her leg and rolls over, springing to his feet as she struggles to regain her balance. A small victory, though; within a second he finds himself fully in defensive mode as she flies at him.

“You’re good,” she says, and almost kicks him in the stomach. “Most of the trainees would be out by now, or at least scared out of their minds.”

Spot, in a rush of good luck, manages to grab her wrist as it comes his way and quickly locks her tight against his chest. “So this is why all of our field agents lose their shit whenever you raise your voice. They’re all scared you’ll break their necks.”

“Something like that, yeah.” She pauses, still catching her breath, and Spot makes no move to release her. “But you’re letting out something too. Fighting is therapeutic. What’s bugging you?”

“Nothing,” says Spot, too quickly.

“Bullshit. It’s got something to do with Race. More than, you know,” she wiggles her head and stray hairs tickle Spot's chin. “The big pile of shit he’s gotten himself into.”

Spot knows. “How the fuck can you tell?”

“You’re too tense.” Then, Smalls lifts her legs, kicks them behind Spot's, and pitches them both backwards in a feat of extreme agility. She rolls easily to her feet. Spot is left, once again, on the ground.

“I think I’m good for the night,” she says lightly. “You?”

This time, Spot takes her outstretched hand and lets himself be pulled up.

 _You could be a field agent,_ says Spot's mind, and he’s not sure if Smalls just said that or if his mind cooked it up himself.

Oddly enough, it’s spoken in Race's voice.

 

 _Race's voice does not betray him now. His fingers twitch, typing without the keys to hit, and that is his communication. Nobody has noticed it yet._

__

_Someone keeps telling him to speak, boy, although somewhere in his mind he wants to say- I’m older than you are, and stronger than you’ll ever be._

__

_He says it out loud and receives another sting._

__

_Stop with the wisecracks, they say, but Race speaks fluent wisecrack and therefore will not cease. It’s the firecracker that keeps the room alight when everything else is suffocating, stinging, imploding. He can rely on his words. They will not fail him._

__

_What is this, they ask. Race doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. (He does.)_

__

_When asked, he doesn't know a thing._

 

The rational thing to do would be to go back to working on the tranquilizer formula Spot was adjusting before everything happened. If what happened with Jack is anything to go by, Spot can’t afford to sit out and worry. He’ll do what he did for Jack and make contingency plans upon contingency plans, letters A through Z and beyond.

He’s not letting Race slip through his fingers.

A week passes, a week where Spot forces himself to set an alarm so he remembers to eat and return to his apartment at the end of the work day. He works with his small team of scientists to do what they can for the agency and for the ongoing Race operation.

He picks up the grenade he was working on when he met Les, Davey’s little brother. It brings up memories of the day they spent together, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as Spot would expect it to. Instead, he feels happy more than anything.

That was nearly a year ago now. Spot wants it to happen again.

Biochemistry is not something Spot thought he would ever get into. At the beginning, as a teenager struggling to stay afloat in a world unwelcoming to street rats, the idea of becoming a scientist was otherworldly and terrifying. Fighting with his fists seemed to be the only thing he was good at.

Fighting behind the scenes was what intrigued him.

Here he is, creating drugs and explosions and having the time of his life in a semi-underground laboratory working for a man who is willing to ignore his history, and despite his anxiety and aversion to a certain part of the city, life really is looking up.

 _I did it, mama,_ he says to the sky.

Then, he says, _I’m gonna get him back. I promise._

 

Specs pages him.

Spot wonders _what’s happening now_ all the way up, and manages to curse the speed of the elevator only once. Once again, he has not taken off his lab coat, but he supposes it’s become a sort of staple in making his outward appearance look somewhat put together. It’s easy for him to drop everything and run into the ground, but appearances are something that’s been drilled into him from a young age. He must look capable at all times.

Specs' office is empty at first glance, but further investigation reveals that Specs is actually sitting at Race's desk, typing intently. An energy drink sits next to his left hand and his glasses are slipping down his nose. He does not look up when Spot makes his presence known.

“I think I’ve found him,” says Specs.

It’s the world reborn in Spot's eyes within those short five words. He sees his entire life crumble and rebuild in the time it takes to comprehend exactly what that means.

“You found him,” Spot repeats.

“ _Think_ is the key word,” Specs says, and he stops typing just long enough to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “But I’m getting somewhere, definitely. I thought you’d want to know first.”

Besides the energy drink, he’s drinking from the stack of cold coffee on Race's desk, left there from all the times Spot's autopilot has made a cup for his missing boyfriend. It’s probably bitter beyond compare, but Spot has no idea how Specs likes his coffee. Maybe he likes it dark.

Spot blinks, comprehends once again. “Thank you. So what exactly have you found?”

“Well-” Specs draws a deep breath, signaling a long-winded explanation- “I took the tracer from the van and tried to determine the exact way in which it had been shut off, because breaking it would have left it unable to turn back on again when we found it. It turns out they just shorted it out, so maybe they didn’t expect it to turn back on, even though we’ve built precautions around that. So because of that, whatever the pulse was that did it had to be _gigantic._ We checked the area and there was nothing there, right; so by those standards we were looking for a vehicle or something that would carry that amount of voltage safely- like a battery, but big. I spread the pals out looking through all the camera footage for any big thing that could’ve brought that much power at the time, and we came up with this.”

He pulls up a grainy picture of an SUV-like truck similar to the vans they use for missions. The windows are shaded and the truck itself is entirely unmarked, save for the license plate, which is conveniently dirty.

“And,” says Spot, “this means-”

“I’m about to run a check to see where this truck headed off to,” Specs finishes. “Don’t get me wrong, there’s a whole bunch of variables and probably like, a thousand things that could go wrong, but it’s a start. If we assume that Race was inside that truck, that’s better than anything else we’ve gotten in the past week and a half.”

Spot lets himself collapse into the chair in the corner of Race's office that was once a part of the atrium furniture. He brought it up himself, after a challenge from Smalls to see how well he could be a ‘sneaky field agent’- he passed- and it stays, specifically for times like this.

( _“I make you weak in the knees,” said Race, seeing it brought through his door._ )

Specs talks into his headset, which seems to be connected to the rest of the offices. Spot hears but he doesn’t listen. His mind is full of _Race Race Race Race,_ despite it being only a week and a half. There hasn’t been enough time for him to feel jaded, to completely rebuild the barriers that came down the minute Race had been pronounced missing.

“What can I do?”

 

Jack stops by Spot's lab before he joins Smalls and Sniper in the garage. “I won’t let anything else happen to him,” he says. “He’s my best friend. Nothing else matters anymore. As long as I can get him home, it’ll be okay.”

Spot pushes his goggles to his forehead.

Jack puts out his hand and Spot shakes it hard; in all ways, this feels like a finale, but they both know Snyder’s just getting started. It’s the beginning of a new fight, for them and for the city- depending on what they find, it could be for more than that too.

“Good luck,” says Spot, and Jack brings his fingers to his forehead in a small salute before he continues down the hallway towards the car. Smalls and Sniper are waiting, both already wearing their field gear. Jack steels himself as he gets ready.

“We’ll be fine, team,” Smalls says. “Let’s go get ourselves a cocky little hacker.”

The ride to the building is short and tense. Sniper ties and re-ties her shoes, her hair, and anything that can be fiddled with. Jack sits stoically, unmoving. His restless energy is being bundled, packaged, waiting for the perfect moment to release it in a burst of bullets or fists.

Smalls stops the car a block away, hidden on a side street. She leans across the seat and looks her agents in the eye, one after another. “We good?”

“Peachy,” Jack says. Sniper nods in agreement, pulling a tight smile.

Smalls grabs her bag from the passenger seat and pulls a single handgun from inside of it, tucking it in her leg holster. “Boom. Let’s do this.”

 

For the first time since Race woke up, he has a clear head. It pounds, pain drilling into his temples so hard he wishes he might fall asleep again just to escape, but it’s not fuzzy. The stones in the room do not have blurred edges, and when he moves his arms the metallic chink of metal hitting rock does not sound far away.

His fingers twitch. He writes a line of code; _origin: [dataset-1] clear;_ and tries to decide if it has meaning.

A spasm fights its way through his body, leaving him alone and shaking against the cold floor of wherever the hell he is. Somehow, his socks are still on his feet. They do nothing.

Something else shakes. It’s not his body this time- somewhere above him, deep within the sound of his heart pumping violently loud, are loud voices. Yelling. Panic.

 _Hallelujah,_ he thinks.

Some noises are closer than others: a sharp burst of gunfire, more yelling, a heavy thud. Footsteps, growing steadily louder, approaching the door across the room.

Race is covered in cold yellow light.

He blinks at the silhouette, but the light is making his headache worse, so he resigns to watching its shadow on the floor. It gets bigger and bigger until it seems to swallow him whole.

It’s not anyone he’s on good terms with, as he’d hoped; no, it’s an angry man with sandy hair and a missing tooth and the scraggly beginning of an ugly beard. Tooth-gap stomps ever closer and lifts a ring of keys out of his pocket, grumbling. Race catches _good-for-nothing_ and _fuckin’ dumb assholes_ and _can’t even defend a fuckin’ door._ A key turns, and the metal around Race's wrists fall away.

He considers kicking Tooth-gap. Tooth-gap pulls out a gun. He decides to stay put.

“Get up, ya filthy thing,” snarls the man. The stone floor suddenly seems a lot more comfortable than anything the man can do, so Race stays.

Tooth-gap grabs Race's arm and hauls him up hard, wrenching his arm out and causing new pain to blossom deep within his shoulder. They stagger out the door and up a flight of stairs.

There, Race sees Jack- just for a moment, a friendly face- until another person he doesn’t recognize crosses the path and obstructs his view. Something in Race gives way to relief.

If Jack is here, if he is fighting, that means there are more. That means they know.

“Stop,” commands Tooth-gap. The hall seems to clear out in just a few seconds, until it is left with Race and Tooth-gap on one side and Jack and Smalls on the other. The two agents point their guns at Tooth-gap. The man points his at Race.

“You have nowhere to go,” Jack says.

“Put down your weapons,” says Tooth-gap. The nose of his gun brushes Race's ear and he holds back a shiver. Race makes eye contact with Jack; his best friend is dark, calculated, and running through possibilities within the span of a second. Jack softens and offers Race just a bit of humanity before training his eyes back on Tooth-gap.

There is a deep, still silence. No one moves. Race barely breathes. His back is pressed against Tooth-gap’s chest, which is heaving so greatly Race feels seasick.

Smalls, behind Jack, makes a minute movement with her hand. _Push._ Slowly, carefully, Race shifts his weight, trying to think past the pain and the sluggishness, and as she nods, push is exactly what he does.

Race grabs the hand holding the gun and shoves it as far away from his head as he can. In that exact moment, a pane of glass shatters, and Race finds himself being tugged to the ground.

Race pushes. That is what he does, that is what he has always done, and it is what he will continue to do. He will push forward, push to create something new, push to stay alive. He pushes himself away from the body on the ground- Tooth-gap, with a hole in his skull- and he crawls forward.

“We’ve got him,” Smalls says, to someone invisible. Jack holsters his gun and kneels beside Race. Once again, Race thinks, _hallelujah,_ and Jack smiles at him as he draws a breath.

 

Spot is present when those words are spoken. He hears _we’ve got him_ and even as Specs continues to direct Smalls, the words _we’ve got him_ echo in Spot's ears as though it is the only thing he has ever heard.

Then, he all but runs back to his lab and begins preparation for Race's arrival.

 

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” says Race, standing at the door of the room. Spot is in the doorway, once again holding a paper cup with what Race is positive is crappy hospital coffee. Spot splits a smile and takes it as his cue to enter, putting the coffee down on the bedside table and throwing himself into the visitors’ chair.

“It’s another apology coffee,” Spot says. The air in the room is light, but inside Spot feels his lungs begin to stiffen and tug in. “For what happened before.”

Race closes the door and turns to face him. “Like, the whole fight that ended in me going out and getting caught by Snyder, exactly what you said was going to happen.”

“That’s not what I meant when I said it, I swear-”

“I’m sorry,” Race says loudly, cutting him off. “I should have listened, I should have calmed down, what I said was uncalled for and in no way do I mean it now.”

Spot blinks. Race crosses the room and picks up his coffee, and Spot can see the faint traces of a limp.

“That’s not right,” Spot says.

Race pauses mid-sip. “What?”

“I’m supposed to be the one disregarding my stupid pride and apologizing. Not you.”

“It can be both of us, asshat.” Race reaches over to slide his fingers through Spot's hair.

Spot ducks away from the touch. “Stop. This is not what was supposed to happen. You’re drinking the coffee before I’ve even said anything.

“Then say it.”

“I shouldn't have said what I said either. You are one of the most capable people I know. I’m sorry.”

Race takes another drink and leans closer until he’s nearly nose-to-nose with Spot. “Apology accepted. Always.”

The taste of coffee on Race's lips feels so normal that for a moment, Spot believes that nothing has ever been wrong.

 

Jack visits Race, when the sun is painting colours in the sky and visiting hours are just beginning to close. He sits in the chair beside the bed and waits for Race to finish the chapter in his book.

“How are you really?”

“Actually,” says Race, mulling it over, “not bad.”

Jack nods and shuffles in his seat. “Snyder can be tough. I get it, I really do.”

“You were in there for eight months, Jack. Two weeks is a cakewalk.”

But Race's chest and stomach are covered in wrapping, keeping together dozens upon dozens of small cuts and scratches, and the headache hasn’t yet gone away. He takes antibiotics with every meal and still has trouble breathing. Sometimes, he still tastes blood.

Because Snyder is deadly. Jack knows this, and now Race does too.

“We could make a club,” Jack says.

A smile tugs at the corners of Race's mouth. “Support Group for Anybody Who’s Been Personally Victimized by Snyder and Lived to Tell the Tale.”

Jack laughs out loud. There may be a trace of bitterness in it; neither can tell. The fact that Snyder is still wreaking havoc on the streets and in the background is indication enough.

Despite this, Jack finds a piece of paper and a fat orange marker and puts a sign on Race's door:

**Support Group for Anybody Who’s Been Personally Victimized by Snyder and Lived to Tell the Tale: meeting at 3:00.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> choo choo here comes the angst train >:)
> 
> 1\. oH MY GOD you guys I'm so sorry about the lateness of this chapter, like I said to that one anon (thank you anon, btw, because it boosted me to finish this) summer has been a bitch and I've had to deal with summer school, camp, and writer's block. but then I managed to bang out 5k words in three days so here we are!
> 
> 2\. do not judge my science. I don't know how to science.
> 
> 3\. okie dokie buds here's the thing: after this, I have one chapter planned, and then probably an epilogue of some sort. after that, honestly, it's free game from there- I'm gonna feel super weird without this to work on. SO, what's next for me? I was thinking either small one shots in this little spy!verse OR something completely new, OR BOTH! give me input, leave a comment or drop an ask into my tumblr (@impalahallows) and we'll see what happens!
> 
> as always, tell me what you think! thanks for the positivity y'all, it really means a lot!!


	5. Cognitive Recalibration: the Benefits & the losses (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They will find Snyder, even if it runs them into the ground, even if it kills them all.
> 
> For every unrelenting obstacle, there's an unrelenting genius just waiting to fight.

_He doesn’t know who’s driving the car. They haven’t spoken a word since he got in, which is to be expected. He knows that they’ll take him where he’s supposed to be._

_In the meantime, he busies himself with the knife in his hand- cleaned to a crisp shine, freshly sharpened. If he even touched the edge of the blade, he would draw blood._

_It goes in a sheath behind his back. He pulls his shirt back over it, making it almost invisible._

_The car stops. He hears the locks click open, sees the driver wave their hand as if to say, get out. He steps out of the car._

_In his pocket is a picture. It’s wallet-sized, perfectly rectangular, no frayed edges or spots. It shows a man sitting on a bench, eating a sandwich. Nothing could be more normal about this picture, except for one simple thing:_

_This is the man he is going to kill._

 

The post-it note on the edge of Race's bottom right-hand monitor says **EAT SOMETHING** in large capital letters. The same large capital letters adorn another post-it on the other side of said computer monitor, saying **TAKE A BREAK**. 

In fact, the yellow squares of paper cover almost every object in his office, including one on each desk lamp ( **DRINK SOME WATER** and **WATER YOUR PLANTS** consecutively) and one on the inside doorknob ( **GO HOME** ). On the clock, in different print, is a fluorescent pink note saying **be nice to yourself!! xx**. 

A green one on the toolbox has a very detailed drawing of a poop. 

On the light switch, there’s a blue jumbo note that, in cursive, details the exact instructions to make Smalls’ famous ‘heart attack milkshake’, and below that, **good luck**. 

Race lifts his head from his arm cradle, having fallen asleep at his desk for the third time in as many days. There’s a post-it stuck on his forehead, even- he tears it off and groans. It’s dark in the office, and as he reaches over to turn on a lamp it just illuminates countless more notes. The one on his forehead reads, in distinctly Spot's printing, **stop overworking yourself, asshat.**

It seems as though all 33 parts of his spine crack when he stretches. He supposes there’s a reason why all the notes seem to have the recurring theme of self-care. 

The camera footage of his office from 9:00 to about 9:20 (a note on the keyboard says **you sleep like the dead** ) shows him a very pleasant video of Spot sticking the note on his forehead more gently than he could have thought possible, followed by Spot finding the camera and standing in front of it with his middle finger up for the remainder of the time it takes his compatriots to litter Race's office with the notes. 

Warmth spreads across his chest. He looks at the clock, taking in the note written by- _Alicia? Buttons? Both of them?_ \- and then the time: it’s nearly midnight.

He maps out a path to the break room and shuts off all the corresponding motion sensors. Standing up proves another issue- having been asleep on his desk for the past four hours, there is no muscle in his back that is not protesting the sudden movement. The **GO HOME** note glares at him as he leaves the office with intent to do anything but that.

The window at the far end of the break room has its blind open, and faded moonlight spills into the room in such a way that Race feels even more tired than he did before falling asleep. Nevertheless, he finds a leftover sandwich in the fridge and picks it up without looking at it.

His hand brushes a sticky note and he curses. **IF YOU STAY HERE ALL NIGHT I’M SUING YOU. GO HOME.** This one also has a small doodle of a gavel. 

For the most part, however, this makes him feel better. 

The past week has brought Race to a sort of breaking point. When Pulitzer had said they were going after Snyder again, it wasn’t just a one-off: no, he wanted them on the job full-time. After the eight months without Jack and watching the entire agency just about crumble, along with the two weeks he spent in that putrid basement, Race is the self-proclaimed second in line to get a bullet into the man. Directly after Jack, who deserves so much more. 

He can’t imagine that pulling three all-nighters in a row is good for him, but the work must be done. This is how it will be until they find him.

The sandwich is a simple peanut butter and strawberry jam, but it does well for his stomach. For the past two days, he’s been living off of coffee, energy drinks, and extra leftovers that his division members take turns giving him during his forced breaks. They’ve organized a system. He’s seen the Race Upkeep Sheet hidden in the bottom drawer of Specs’ desk; it has been around long before the new mission arrived. 

Returning to his office with a clearer head, Race sees nothing time-sensitive or crucial on any of his screens. He saves them all, puts on his shoes, and watches the **GO HOME** note slowly shift to approval as he locks the door of his office.

 

_State your name for the record, please._

_Sean. My name is Sean._

_Alright, Sean, I have only one question for you. Do you recognize this man?_

_No. I have no idea who he is._

_Good. You’re ready to go._

 

Race wakes up with limited recollection of returning to his apartment. The taste in his mouth is a mix of peanut butter and morning breath, and when he blinks, a small flash of pain shoots across his eyes.

He groans, flings an arm over his face, and decides that he would very much like to sleep for the next forty-eight hours.

It still looks vaguely dark out, so Race manages to drag himself off of the bed and ignore his protesting muscles in favor of removing his contacts and changing into more comfortable pants.

Despite his sleep-weary brain, he corners a sight of himself in the mirror and grimaces: red-rimmed eyes from extended contact use accentuated by dark and puffy circles, mussed hair that would likely provide much protest if he were to drag his fingers through it, and an imprint down his neck where the collar of his shirt pulled up and pressed in.

_God,_ he thinks, then, _I’ll be back to normal when we find him._

He texts Spot a short thank you for inevitably commandeering the sticky note intervention and falls back onto his bed, content to rest until his brain works again.

 

He wakes up for the second time at seven on the dot, simultaneous with the sudden yelling of his alarm. Spot has texted him back: _sleep well, dumbass. eat something substantial in the morning._ Knowing that he would probably be brought back home against his will if he didn’t, Race tries to find the most substantial thing in his kitchen.

Still, true to the past three years, Spot brings him a steaming coffee. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says.

“Shut it, you,” says Race, but he takes a large gulp of the coffee so he can pretend he might have still complained. “Go to work.”

“I’m at work, if you haven’t noticed. Or do you think I’m astral projecting?”

Race mutters, “No one could astral-project the overwhelming smell of _lab_ connected to your coat,” and watches as Spot frowns before splitting into a smile. He’s careful to not take another drink until after something has already been said. Spot has already tipped his mug twice in the past few months.

Instead, Spot rubs Race's hair somewhat aggressively. “You’ll be thanking me when you realize you can actually do stuff today,” he says. “Take some breaks. Don’t overwork yourself.”

He drops a quick kiss on Race's forehead, a moment of unbroken affection, and as he leaves Race can hear him grumble about labs not having smells. 

Race lets the coffee rest in his mouth, sets down the mug, and turns to his keyboard. The code is at the forefront of his brain now, not bungled by sleep, and flows to his fingertips with ease. 

>> Conversation with: cupcake mcfuckerson (09:08)  
_what would i do without u_  
_**Run into a hole, probably**_  
_yeah, u right_  
_**Aren’t I always???**_  
_go do crazy science_  
_**:)**_

 

Specs knocks on the door at exactly 12:30 and says, “What time is it? Lunchtime!”

“Piss off,” Race yells. 

“Nope,” yells Specs in reply. “We’re going out.”

Race realizes that no matter what he does, this is the fate he must live, so he saves his work and spins around in his chair a couple times before letting Specs in. Apparently, Specs has brought attachments in the form of Romeo and Jack, the latter of whom wiggles his eyebrows at Race the moment they make eye contact.

“Meeting at three, remember?” Jack says, and Race laughs. 

“It’s not three yet.”

Jack feigns a gasp. “Oh, I didn’t tell you? There’s been a time change.” 

“Oh really?” Race tries to exactly copy Jack’s face. “Gosh darn, looks like nobody kept me in the loop.”

“Unfortunate.”

“Mm.”

He sees Specs and Romeo exchange a confused glance and laughs out loud. Jack matches him almost exactly; it’s no question how close they are when everything they try to do in sync seems to work out perfectly.

“We’re picking up Spot on the way down,” says Romeo, in an attempt to edge back into the conversation that has been, up to this point, cryptically stuck between Race and Jack.

“Ah,” Jack says. “Excellent. His clock is wrong.”

Race asks, “Is it really?” with such conviction that it takes Jack the entire trip downstairs to calm down.

 

Race finds himself sandwiched between Jack and Specs while Spot and Romeo battle for elbow rights on the opposite side of the table, and even when Spot kicks him accidentally and makes it look intentional, he finds the mood dimmed slightly of what it should be.

Because no matter how wonderful it feels to have this, he knows it can just as easily be ripped away from him and torn apart. Out of the five of them there, along with countless others back at the agency, already there have been too many mishaps.

He can only worry about what’s going to happen next. 

 

The moment Spot walks in the door he can tell Race is going to be working late. The boyfriend in question is hunched over his keyboard typing with such animosity that Spot is surprised the keys haven’t failed on him yet. Race has got earbuds in, but the cord is resting on the desk, unplugged.

Spot contemplates just leaving the coffee and disappearing, not wanting to disturb what is obviously a brainwave, but Race sees the shift of light across the desk and pauses.

“I’m just about to leave,” says Spot. He’s quiet, trying not to shatter the mood the office has seemed to take on; something still and heavy and silent and determined. “Don’t overwork yourself again, okay?”

Race accepts the drink gratefully. “I’ll try my best, Spotty. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, cupcake.”

Spot is almost at the door when Race says, “I’ll try to get home tonight. Don’t wait up for a text.”

“I’ll stay up all night worrying,” Spot jokes with a completely straight face.

Race sighs, affection lacing his tone as he says, “Dumbass. You’ve got crazy science to do tomorrow. Be safe on your way home. Don’t die.”

“That’s a promise.”

The door clicks shut behind Spot. Race stares at it for a while, picturing Spot adjusting his bag and bidding good-bye to anybody he meets in the stairwell and walking out the door with a smile on his face. 

_This man is going to be the death of me,_ he thinks. He looks at his hands, sees the mole on the edge of his left and the way his nails have been chewed to the beds and the growing callouses on the heels of his hands from where they rest on the desk. They’re so different from Spot's, from the knuckles that seem to be constantly bruised and the scar on the edge of Spot's right that matches his mole and the dirt under the fingernails.

Race imagines them together. 

_I love him._

All the more reason to fight, to find the looming threat of Snyder and dispose of it. He turns back to his keyboard and lets himself be enveloped by what he does best. 

 

_“Do you recognize this man?”_

_The picture is one Sean has seen multiple times- or so he thinks, although things regarding this one in particular are sort of fuzzy. A man on a bench eating a sandwich. That’s all there is to it. His face is in perfect view, despite being a tad grainy, and he looks… sad._

_Still, something tugs at the edges of Sean’s memory. Something makes him want to go and sit beside the man, to tell him that not everything is going to be as bad as whatever has made him look as alone as he does._

_The woman in front of him must see the hesitancy in his eyes. “Don’t lie to me,” she warns, and as if reinforcing the unspoken threat, the camera in the corner of the room blinks its light._

_“I don’t,” Sean starts to say, but he is interrupted by the woman slamming her hand down on the desk. The sound resonates in the room. He flinches._

_“Don’t lie to me!” she screams._

_“I don’t think I do!” Sean retaliates, raising his voice to match her pitch. “But why do I need to know?”_

_Instead of answering, she turns to the doorway and beckons. Another unnamed man appears, one that Sean is certain he will not remember in two minutes. “He’s not ready,” she tells the man. “Send him back.”_

_“Yes, ma’am,” the man says._

_Sean knows it’s coming. He braces himself for the sudden darkness and prepares to be pulled from his seat to places unknown._

 

At 9:30, Race finds himself unbearably hungry and decides to heed Spot's advice. Within the past week, he’s managed to sneak a bar fridge into his office and slowly stock it with leftovers and energy drinks: specifically, containers with varying meals made by Pea for this exact purpose. He pops the top off of one with salad and finds a fork in one of his drawers.

For once, he feels like he’s getting somewhere, and it’s freeing. It was no new idea to attempt to find a pattern in all of the past and recent outcroppings of Snyder Activity to predict the next problem and maybe trace it back, but for the longest time no pattern has been found. No history, backgrounds, connections, or anything of the sort, and it has been driving the entire technical division crazy. 

However, Race thinks he may have found a legitimate connection- he just needs to dig in further.

His fork is halfway to his mouth when his cell phone rings. 

“Is this… Tony?” the voice on the other end asks when he picks up.

He swallows and says, “This is.”

“My name is Avery Pearson, I’m with the NYPD. Your phone number was found in the wallet of one Sean Conlon. Do you know who this is?”

“Yes.” Race's mouth is suddenly extremely dry. “He’s my boyfriend.”

The person takes a deep breath and says, in a carefully composed tone, “I’m sorry, sir. Your boyfriend was found dead just under twenty minutes ago.”

 

Even the hum of Race's computers seem to disappear into nothing.

Almost comically, the container falls out of his hands, spilling spinach and tomatoes all over his lap and the floor.

“Sir?” the caller prompts.

Race works his jaw, but nothing comes out.

“Sir,” they repeat.

So, in a rush of air that takes the most concentration Race has ever used, he says, “What?” in a strangled voice. Then, as Avery begins to repeat the information- “I heard. Please don’t say it again.”

“Are you all right, sir?”

Race finds the question superficial and completely unnecessary. “What happened?”

There’s a quiet bit of conversation on the other end of the line that Race doesn’t quite catch. Tomato juice has begun to seep into his jeans as he sits, frozen, having only been able to bring the most basic functions of his body back into motion. 

“Could you come here? 121 DeKalb, Brooklyn. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right.”

“Brooklyn,” Race says. He doesn’t know Brooklyn; aside from living on the very outskirts when he was in his teens, Race is a Manhattan kid. Brooklyn is Spot's turf. _Was_ Spot's turf. 

“That’s right.”

“I’ll be right there.” The words fall out of Race's mouth before he even thinks about it. He supposes it’s the only thing he can do, considering the other option is to sit here until morning failing to make himself properly move.

The officer says something else, obviously content with his answer, and Race makes himself hang up the phone. By some terrible feat of strength, he manages to pick up the container and put it on the desk, and then stands up. He hits the edge of his hand on the corner of his desk and doesn’t wince.

 

It takes him fifteen minutes to hail a taxi, and by that time he is nearly in tears. The driver blinks at the destination but says nothing about it aside from a quick “you got it, mate.” Race is aware that again, he looks like a wreck; with the few tears that managed to escape his eyes and an extra plaid flannel thrown on top of a wrinkled button-up with tomato stains, he is definitely not the sort of person to be working at a prestigious government spy agency.

Nevertheless, he gets no protests from the hospital staff or from the officer that appears in the lobby to take him somewhere below the main floor. They stop in the hallway in front of a room- a room with a table covered in a sheet that Race realizes, heartbreakingly, must be-

The officer asks him a couple questions, to all of which he responds appropriately. He recognizes the underlying implication of murder. He knows this before anyone even tells him the horrible truth: that this was not an accident.

“Do you know who might have had a grudge against him?” asks the officer, finally, and Race can’t stop the laugh that heaves out of his stomach. Not counting the facets of Spot's past in Brooklyn that Race has never known and likely never will, he could list more people than he knows at the agency.

(Race knows everyone at the agency.)

“Do you want a list?” he replies, and it’s then he realizes that all he sounds is bitter. The officer must recognize that, because she says, “we’ll call you later,” and stands aside, freeing the doorway to the room.

Race isn’t sure he wants to see what’s inside.

He does anyway.

Faced with Spot, pale and silent and still and lifeless, all Race can say is, “I love him.”

“I’ll take you home,” says the officer. 

 

Race stands in the entryway of his apartment. He hasn’t moved in six minutes and twelve seconds. The officer left him two minutes and four seconds before that after asking him for the third time if he was going to be okay. It’s taken eight minutes and sixteen seconds in total for Race to decide that he doesn’t want to be here.

Where does he want to be? _With Spot,_ his mind says, so instead he resumes counting the seconds. 

_One._ He’s staring at the corner of the wall that currently blocks half his view of the apartment.

_Two._ Where is he now? 

_Three._ Knees hit tile, ceramic entrance tile, the floor. 

_Four._ His shoes are still on.

_Five._ He can’t see.

He’s wearing his glasses and he still can’t see because there are fucking tears everywhere. On the lenses. In his eyes. On his eyelashes. On the ground. All over his face.

Dear god, he’s not sure where there isn’t some evidence of tears.

_Fuck._

 

So he cries for a long time.

 

He cries for so long, for a blessed moment he forgets _why._

 

Then it all comes slamming back in, stealing the breath away from his lungs as abruptly as it came, and Race folds in on himself as though kicked in the stomach.

It’s dark outside. Streetlights have come on. Race can hear movement in the apartment next to him, no doubt wondering what could possibly be making their neighbour sound as pained as he does now. Race only wonders how they could be living when life has so effortlessly disappeared.

There’s a hole inside of Race, and it just keeps getting bigger. The ghost of Spot has a spoon and is carving away at it, taking more and more pieces that truly belong to him, because in the end there is no part of Race that _doesn’t_ belong wholly and completely to Spot. 

Race has stopped crying simply because he has no more tears left to give.

 

Time passes indeterminately. 

 

When light begins to break into the apartment again, making everything the exact shade of fuzzy gray that describes morning, Race picks himself up on terribly shaking arms and sits back on his heels.

He’s still wearing shoes.

His glasses lay discarded on the floor, the lenses replaced with tear stains. 

A part of him is glad for the blurriness as he stands up. He doesn’t have to see in colour, doesn’t have to see in focus just yet. He puts a slice of bread in the toaster.

The ghost of Spot stands behind him, saying, _you have to eat something._

Race sticks the burnt toast in his mouth and calls a taxi.

 

In the time it takes for the taxi to come, Race washes his face, cleans his glasses, and changes into clean clothing. The action brings him closer to himself, closer to the unfragmented version of reality he had known before it broke. 

He is halfway through composing a text to Spot when his phone slips out of his fingers and falls onto the entrance tile. A thin, hair-like split adorns the screen when he picks it up. 

“I’m fine,” he tells himself.

_No, you’re not,_ says the ghost of Spot. 

He ignores it and locks his door, meeting the taxi at the front. When the driver attempts to make conversation he doesn’t protest, just goes along with it as much as he can. It’s better than being alone, he thinks. 

The office is mostly empty when he enters. There are phantom footsteps somewhere above him, probably belonging to an anonymous renter or someone from the comm department. He doesn’t know if the labs are open but he goes there anyway, letting himself into Spot's office and stealing the sweater from the coat rack.

It smells like lab. It smells like Spot.

His body hasn’t quite replenished itself yet, because as much as he wants to cry, it still won’t come. 

 

His fingers, usually so steady and perfect on the keyboard, make so many mistakes that Race can’t tell what the code is supposed to mean. He puts the entire project in the trash and shuts down his computers. He takes the salad container and scrapes it into the garbage, then puts the container on top of the fridge. He finds a mug still with coffee in it and finishes the coffee.

This is how Jack finds him.

 

Today, Race is wearing shoes. His socks match. He’s wearing a shockingly mundane t-shirt and a sweater that’s too small for him, sleeves pushed up at the elbows to mask the fact they don’t reach his palms.

This is the opposite of what Race normally wears. This is the first thing Jack notices when he walks into the office.

Race's mugs are arranged in order of colour all across the open space of his rightmost desk. Half of them hold coffee of varying temperatures, some are completely empty, and none of them are clean. None of them are full and steaming. This is the second thing.

The third thing Jack notices is the deadness of the room. There is no sound, no movement, just Race sitting in silence, his back to the door.

“Race,” Jack says, but Race doesn’t look up. He acknowledges Jack by reaching across the desk and picking up a pen, clicking it until Jack speaks again. “Have you eaten?”

“Toast,” Race says. His voice is rough and much lower than normal. 

Jack shifts. “What about sleep?”

Slowly, lazily, Race swings his chair around and stares at Jack. Dark circles under his eyes answer Jack’s question immediately, and his blank expression tells him not to inquire further.

He’s got bloodshot eyes and his red shirt is full of creases. He turns back to the monitors. Jack stands awkwardly for a few moments, then turns to leave.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says desperately, hanging onto the door. Race snorts. Jack leaves.

“Me too,” Race says to an empty room. 

 

_Swick, is what the paper sounds like. Sean notices this the third time he is brought to the room. He is only allowed to see the inside of this place, like the outside will betray a horrible secret. It’s full of gray walls and gray floors and a metal table that, despite the scratches and dents, still reflects his face back to him._

_He doesn’t recognize himself anymore._

_It’s not that his appearance has changed- far from it. He still has the same proportions, the same scars, the same dark hair that is getting just long enough to tickle his eyebrows._

_What he doesn’t recognize is the eyes. The way they stare, as though he can’t bring himself to feel anymore, even though he can feel a glimmer of something just behind his stomach. The way his lips move apart and together but never stretch into his cheeks, never into a serious smile._

_He’s not sure why this happens the way it does. The woman, as he doesn’t know her name, only her presence as it dominates this specific room, has told him many times to forget. He’s forgotten so much it’s hard to remember that he used to be at all._

 

By noon, six people have knocked on Race's door. Race locks both of them and puts up a sign that just says **DON’T.** This doesn’t stop Specs from letting himself in under the guise of sticking a pop in the fridge, but he doesn’t leave again.

“What happened to your project?” he asks. Race can’t tell if he’s trying to be careful or just glossing over the inevitable, because he’s sure Specs knows by now.

“Trashed,” Race says monotonously. “I fucked it up this morning.”

“Do you want me to figure it out?” asks Specs lightly.

Race shrugs. “Go ahead.”

So Specs grabs a laptop from his office and sits in the corner of the room. He gains a stink eye from Race, but doesn’t move from his spot. “I’m not leaving you alone,” he says.

Race snorts and says nothing. Specs begins to work.

 

“It hasn’t rained yet,” Race says matter-of-factly. The suddenness of the statement causes Specs to pause his work and look at Race, eyebrows raised in a motion of _please explain why your mind has come to this._ “In movies, when someone dies, it rains.”

He pauses and thinks for a moment that stretches into a solid amount of time. Specs watches him, it being obvious Race is not finished his thought. “It won’t feel right until it rains.”

The weather forecast for the foreseeable future predicts sunlight and light clouds, but no rain. Specs relays this. Without a change in expression, Race seems to sink further into his seat. 

Then, so quietly he has to strain to hear it, Race says, “I don’t understand.”

“What? The weather?”

Race trains a dark look on Specs. “Yes,” he says, sarcasm bleeding from his words, “after tenth grade science and god knows what fucking else, I still don’t understand why the sun is alive. Dick.”

Specs holds up his hands in a gesture of _I was just saying_ and waits for Race to continue. It takes a long time for the words to come again.

“He didn’t deserve this.”

“I know,” says Specs.

Race's fingers tighten on the armrest until his hand shakes. “They said he still had his wallet and keys, so there didn’t seem to be much evidence of a mugging. It was just-” he falters. “-death. No visible point to it.”

_Death._

_Death._

_Death._

The fact that that is the first time Race has actually acknowledged _death_ slaps him in the face. The past fourteen hours have been the longest fourteen hours of Race's life, yet at no point during them has he truly believed that Spot was _dead._ Just gone, he thinks, on a trip somewhere. He’ll be back soon.

_Lies,_ says the ghost of Spot. _I’m not coming back._

“Shut up,” Race says out loud, startling Specs, who has not yet spoken. “Shut up, you’re dead, you don’t get to talk.”

“Race?” Specs says tentatively. 

Race blinks twice and looks around, as if snapping out of a daze. “I’m fine,” he says automatically, but the falseness of the statement shines through so obviously he grimaces. 

Specs removes the laptop from his legs and stands up, taking a small moment to shake out his legs before crossing the room. Race makes no move towards or away, just lets his chair spin a little bit. 

As much as he can from this position, Specs wraps his arms around Race, and Race finds this gesture the breaking point of every single emotion he’d been refusing to feel. Everything that Race believes and everything he knows to be true (and everything he knows to be _false,_ because he lives in a web of lies and false starts and deception) becomes a tidal wave, crashing over the entire world that Race has built inside the short inches between his face and Specs’ shirt. 

And Specs, _bless him,_ manages to pull Race above the unforgiving waves that threaten to drag him to the bottom of the ocean floor. They sit in the office and tread water at the same time, with just enough energy to keep their heads above the water, and despite the fact that Race is leaning on Specs with almost all of his weight, they do not drown. Specs does not let go.

Maybe Race has lost his island, his only refuge from the sea that swallows him whole, but in this moment (and this moment _only_ ) he is holding onto a piece of driftwood and _praying._

He begins to dry-heave, and Specs rubs his back.

“I told him not to die,” he gasps. “And he said _that’s a promise._ He promised, Spence. He promised and now he’s- now he’s-”

The word catches. Race swallows what little moisture is in his mouth, resets his tongue, and starts again.

“Dead,” he chokes out, and with that word he acknowledges reality.

 

Specs takes over the desk in the corner of Race's office. Every day Race stares out the window, waiting for the clouds to darken with water and pour down upon the misery-wracked streets of New York.

Every day, Specs makes him eat something, although the coffee has been bitter and flat without Spot's normal nickname and flair. The sweater stolen from Spot's coat rack has become a permanent fixture on Race's body.

Race talks very little. He clears his throat and begins a sentence only to stop after a single sound, or talks at the apparition on his shoulder. As much as it pains Specs to see his friend slowly slipping and losing control, he does what he can.

_You should snap out of it,_ advises Spot's ghost.

Race raises his head ever so slightly and makes his eyes meet where he imagines Spot would be standing during this particular conversation. _Gee, I haven’t thought of that before,_ he thinks back.

_Wow, look who’s a touchy asshole today._

“Fuck off,” mutters Race out loud.

And there go Specs’ eyebrows, scrunching in concern the way they always do when he talks to himself, but he stopped making comments long ago. Nothing is going to scare Spot away from Race.

 

When it rains, later that month, it brings with it the biggest storm of the summer. 

 

Race sits up straighter as soon as it starts clouding over. “Rain,” he says. This is the first thing he’s said in two days. 

Specs looks up at the window and nods. 

The office gets steadily darker over the next ten minutes, and within those ten minutes Race slides his chair as close to the window as possible and waits. Specs notes that this is the most emotion Race has shown in weeks.

When the first rumble of thunder comes over the agency, a big drum roll that starts far in the distance and climaxes seemingly right above them, Race lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The first drops of rain fall in unison with new tears.

 

It thunders for the rest of the day. Puddles of rain fill the streets and sidewalks and water pelts on the sides of buildings and windows. A flash of lightning seems to crackle right beside Race's window, illuminating the office in blinding light for a split second before thunder comes crashing in, ripping the roof off the building and pounding straight into Race's ears.

Something changes in these moments. Race feels something inside of him snap, release a tension that was holding him so tightly wound together, and replacing it comes a wash of anger that starts deep in his stomach and bursts out of his throat.

Spot is dead, and Race will be damned if he doesn’t find out exactly what kind of bastard killed him. He is going to find this person and he is going to make them pay.

This is the ultimate awakening: Spot is gone, yes, and _fuck_ if that doesn’t tear Race in half. But there’s something to be done about it. There is always something to be done about it. This is a lesson Race has learned through years of working at this agency, with all of these brilliant people he’s met. 

For every unrelenting obstacle, there’s an unrelenting genius just waiting to fight. 

“I’m going to fight,” Race says, and wonder colours his voice as he speaks. “I’m going to fight.”

_Good choice._ The ghost of Spot nods approvingly, then vanishes into the air, leaving only a ripple of displaced reality around him.

Race reaches over, hand only slightly quivering, and turns on his monitor.

 

_The second time Sean sees the picture, the recognition is clear. He knows he knows the man. He just doesn’t know how or why or anything about him at all._

_What comes to mind is the taste of coffee on his lips and the click of keys on a keyboard and cigarettes and loud, obnoxious laughter._

_“I know him,” he says, and then he’s being hauled to his feet once more._

_He can’t see anything on the walk back to the room. His vision has been obscured, whether it’s for privacy or to dishearten escape he doesn’t know. Escaping would never be an option. This is his home._

_The word inadvertently rises to his lips as he stumbles along. Race. It slips over his tongue with such grace that he can’t help but say it again and again until he’s certain it has something to do with the picture. He says the word, and he tastes the coffee and hears the keyboard and feels the love._

_One of the people leading him hears the word as he tests it out._

_That night, the last time he says the word is with a sob as it is hammered out of his mind completely._

 

The first thing Race does is overturn a cardboard box of circuit material onto his worktable. He fills the now-empty box with all of his dirty mugs and takes it down to the break room, intent on washing them all and then filling them up again.

_One spoon sugar, one spoon cream, one spoon sugar, one spoon cream,_ he chants in his head as he washes. He stirs each of them three times clockwise and then three times counterclockwise and blows on the steam. 

It’s still not quite the same, but it’s close enough for now.

“Nice to see you again,” says Jack, who Race hadn’t heard enter the room. “Heard you were out of commission for a bit.”

Race turns around abruptly, looks Jack directly in the eye, and says, “Fuck everything.”

“Fair enough.”

Race sighs. “I don’t want to pretend it’s okay, but what I need to do know is find out what happened and see what I can do. Shutting down is not something I’d like to do right now.”

Jack crosses the room and picks up a wet mug, drying as Race washes. “Tell me what you have.”

“Well,” says Race, and he launches into an explanation that takes all of a minute. “They said it was a stab-and-run. Except there was nothing missing- they gave me a list of everything they found on him- so if it was a mugging it didn’t go far. And Spot isn’t your normal victim, I mean, the guy was pretty scary when he wanted to be.”

“Snyder,” Jack says immediately. 

Race drops his mug back into the water and it splashes, leaving the entire front of his shirt soaked. “You think?”

“It makes sense.”

“Shit.” It does. Race mulls over the possibilities and tries to pretend he didn’t just spill water and dish soap bubbles all over the counter. “You might be right.”

His hands are shaking again. He sticks them under the water and out of sight.

“I’m gonna find the bastard,” he vows. “I’m gonna make him pay.”

Jack puts a hand on his shoulder and pats it gently. “You’ve got the entire agency on your side, Race. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

 

When Race returns to his office, laden with three more mugs and a pen stolen from Jack, there’s a polaroid photo on his desk.

He doesn’t recognize the picture itself but he remembers the day it was taken- a summer day off in one of the more obscure parks in the area, with him and Spot plus Jack, Davey, Crutchie, Smalls, and Katherine. In the picture, Spot is holding a massive bubble wand and is blowing the bubbles into Race's face as Race laughs. Spot's cheeks are high as he fights back a smile and his eyes are glowing. 

Race doesn’t know who took the picture.

Even more a mystery: Race has no idea how it got in his office.

“Specsy?” he yells uneasily, but his office partner is gone.

God, Spot looks so happy. That was a good day.

Race picks up the picture and turns it over. Written on the back, in Jack’s blocky print, is simply _couple of the year._ The pen is faded.

“Shit,” he says out loud. Then he wipes off his cheeks- _when did he start crying?_ \- and tapes the picture to the side of his monitor. 

His own laughing face stares at Spot in the picture. The love in his eyes seems so obvious now, looking at it from someone else’s point of view. What’s more, he can see it too in Spot's.

_Don’t die._

_That’s a promise._

Race pushes all but Spot's eyes to the back of his mind and focuses on his work.

 

For a while, he and Specs work synonymously, leading off each other’s ideas and pushing toward the goal Race had before everything happened. And for a while, it goes really well. They bounce back and find trails that no one would have ever thought of before, and it feels like for once, something is actually turning out correctly.

They come upon a dead end late the next day.

Race has been muttering for the past hour, all some forms of _come on and give me something_ and _be a part of this, damn it!_ It gives him nothing but more frustration as more and more leads turn out to be false.

“We’ll think of something else,” Specs promises. He is exhausted too, taking off his glasses and wiping the bridge of his nose with the edge of his sleeve. “There’s got to be something we’ve missed.”

“I know,” Race says reproachfully. “There’s always something we can do.”

“That’s the spirit.” Specs picks the laptop up off his legs and shuts it with a gentle click. He leans over Race and takes control of the keyboard, saving and then shutting down everything. At Race's protests, he just says, “Shh. It’s break time.”

 

They run into Jo and Buttons in the hallway. Jo swipes their hand up to their forehead in a sort of salute, grinning crookedly at the two of them. “Anything we can do to help, bosses?” 

“Take care of yourselves,” Race tells them, only partially joking. “I’ll be needing you guys soon, after Spence forces me to sleep or whatever plan he’s currently brewing.”

Specs scoffs. “Brewing? I don’t brew. I brainstorm.”

“Okie dokie, Miss Riesman,” says Race. “She was my fifth grade English teacher. I’m pretty sure _brainstorm!_ was her catchphrase.”

“Must’ve been a good time,” Specs says. 

“Oh, definitely.”

“Wonderful,” Buttons says. “We’ll be around tomorrow, I think. If you need anything-”

“-just ask,” finishes Jo. They grin at each other.

“Gotcha,” Specs says, then grabs Race's arm and pulls him bodily towards the stairwell.

 

Race is definitely drunk.

Like, completely _hammered._ No question about it. He barely remembers what happened five minutes ago. When he tries to stand up, he almost trips and faceplants into the firepit.

“Whoa, there,” says Jack, who is probably equally drunk. “You’re hot enough as it is.”

“Flirty,” Race replies flirtatiously. “I like it.”

From somewhere to his left, one of Spot's lab partners yells, “Go home, you’re drunk.”

“So are you,” Race yells back. He doesn’t know her name, or his own. In fact, it’s more slurring than yelling at this point, but he does it anyway. Race is not one to half-ass anything.

The fire looks so _inviting._ Warm. Hot, even, though Race isn’t sure if he wants to be hot. Last time he was this hot, he felt like he was going to explode. “Boom,” he whispers, making an explosion motion with his fingers. It feels fun.

Mush and Blink have begun a contest to see who can kiss better, except they’re performing it on each other, so there’s not much conversation from them. Their bench looks like it’s getting in the way, though. Race wants to kick it over so they can have a fair contest.

Nothing quite makes sense. 

He turns to Elmer, their designated sober friend, and says, “Where’s Spot?”

Elmer winces.

“Ah,” Race says happily. “Excellent. Good to know. Wonderful. Fantastic.”

The flames are swirling, as are the colours of the park around them. It’s dark but not really, because everything is so bright (but maybe it’s just the fire in his eyes) and he can see Jack and Smalls shoving at each other while giggling about something and Blink and Mush are currently lying on the grass and somewhere else, way in the sky, is Spot.

“You’re nice to look at,” Race tells the sky. Tells _Spot._ “That’s why I love you.”

It’s as though Spot appears in front of him and says, “Find me.”

“You’re right _here, _” Race says, because Spot is being silly. “I found you.”__

__“No,” Spot says, and his voice takes on a tone of urgency. “ _Find me._ ”_ _

__He vanishes after that, and Race grabs at the air where he was. He didn’t even get a kiss and it’s _unfair._ All he wants right now is a kiss, it would make the fire hotter and bigger and everything would be good._ _

__His toe pushes over an empty bottle. Elmer sees this and picks it up, stuffing it in a bag beside his feet. “It’s time to go, I think,” he says._ _

__Race laughs. “Your name. It’s like glue.”_ _

__

_The first time the picture slides across the table towards Sean, he takes one look at it and throws up all over the floor._

__

_Find me_ echoes in Race's head the moment he wakes up. Everything is too bright. He rolls over in the bed and almost pukes. Beside him, something moves, and he stops-

__“Hello?” someone mutters sleepily. Jack. Race doesn’t think he can open his mouth without being sick so he groans instead. When he opens his eyes, he blinks up at an unfamiliar ceiling._ _

__He scans the room and finds a door that may lead to a bathroom. All of his limbs feel sluggish, like his bones are made of lead. Rolling off the bed proves difficult and makes him feel impossibly more sick._ _

__Ah, the perks of being so _abysmally_ hungover._ _

__He makes it to the toilet and immediately empties all contents of his stomach. The dizziness hasn’t quite subsided but it has lessened enough for him to splash some water on his face and pretend to be more put-together than he is. The second door he tries leads to the closet, and the third to an uncomfortably bright kitchen._ _

__Elmer is in the kitchen. Automatically, he pushes a glass of water towards Race. “Thanks,” Race says, too quiet._ _

__“No problemo,” Elmer replies. Race dimly remembers calling him a ‘walking meme’ the night before, but the circumstances and reasoning escape him. There is an elongated silence as he comes to terms with everything._ _

__“If this happens every time you crap out, we’re going to have a problem,” says Elmer, breaking the silence. “It’s been a month, Race, there’s a point where you have to come to terms with what happened.”_ _

__Race feels too much like crap to appropriately respond, so he lets a deadpan glare say exactly what he thinks._ _

__He wasn’t aware that a person could slide a bottle of painkillers across the counter with _disappointment,_ but he feels it overwhelmingly from Elmer anyway. “Don’t take more than two,” he is warned._ _

__“I’m going home.”_ _

__He takes another pill even though Elm told him specifically not to take any more, because the crack in his head feels like it’s going to split open and spill brain matter all over the pavement. There are things he needs to do, and be incapacitated because of a stupid headache is not one of them._ _

__Now, instead of telling him to eat something, for some stubborn reason Spot's voice is in his head repeating the words _find me._ _ _

__Race wonders just how much he forgets from the night before._ _

__

__The candle is leaving waxy residue all over his hand. He carries it with no inclination to rush, counting the steps beneath his feet without remembering what the number is._ _

__When he gets to the roof, he stops. There’s already a candle against the outside wall of the stairwell and he’s glad it hasn’t been taken or disappeared with the wind. The one he holds goes next to it, and he lights it with the lighter in his pocket._ _

__“Here’s to you,” he says to no one. “For making me a better man.”_ _

__He’s not sure if that’s necessarily true, especially now that Spot's absence has caused his world to plummet into a deafening silence. The implication that he’d be willing to do worse to somehow ease the pain is terrifying._ _

__He takes a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it on the candle, and stands at the edge of the parapet, letting the smoke trail into the sky above him. When he can no longer see it, he tries to make himself believe that somewhere in the stars, Spot is taking the smoke and putting it in a jar._ _

__Then, he wouldn’t be alone._ _

__

__Every time Race thinks he gets close to Snyder, the lead abruptly ends._ _

__Every time the lead ends, Race sits at his desk for an hour staring at the blank screen, then goes and gets horribly drunk and inevitably wakes up the next day with a splitting headache and no memory of what had happened._ _

__But each time he wakes up, hungover and sick, he wakes up to the words _find me.__ _

__

_The machine is big and imposing. It takes Sean’s memories and twists them, reshapes them, collapses and redistributes the ones that are useful. It takes many tries, each more painful than the next._

_Sean struggles. He tries to paint glue on the frayed edges of what he remembers, tries to keep them whole. In the end, it’s all swept up into the darkness that leaves him shaking and gasping for days on end._

_They haven’t moved him from the cell. It’s been ten months._

_Not that he should know, but the machine doesn’t care about that._

_Sean watches one of his best friends carried away on the current. When he wakes up the next day, he is crying for someone he never knew._

_His cell becomes his home. His responses become genuine. Still, there is a voice that stays in his head, one so obscure even the machine can’t touch it._

_Don’t die, the voice says, full of affection. Sean doesn’t recognize the voice, but he heeds the command anyway, and hopes that someday he’ll come back to whoever it was who spoke to him with such love._

__

__One of Race's favourite restaurants in New York is a small sandwich place called Double Crusts. It’s stuffed between a place that advertises for steam baths, with a sketchy front but the friendliest owner Race has ever met, and a store that’s almost never open- it sells hats, the display says, except the display is dark all of the time Race ever goes to eat._ _

__It’s not exactly well-known but in some ways that makes it more charming: Race knows each person who works there enough to make conversation as he orders, and they have stopped asking him for a table number when he eats in. The table next to the window is always his._ _

__He greets Shawna with a smile, letting the normalcy of it all bring him away from the rest of his life. She tells him that she’s just applied for medical school, and Race triples his tip in congratulations._ _

__“How’s Spot?” she asks as she punches in the sandwich order: turkey club, third on the menu, right after last week’s chicken ranch special._ _

__Race feels his heart stutter._ _

__He is not ready to admit this to anyone else._ _

__“Busy,” he says to her instead, keeping his smile carefully painted onto his face, “but good. Work is finally picking up again, which I think is what we both needed. Something to keep us from going insane.”_ _

__Shawna laughs. “I would think less IT work would be the key to staying sane.”_ _

__Race blinks, having forgotten for a moment that they know him as an IT guy and not a hacking specialist. “You’d be surprised,” he says, not at all lying. “To go, please.”_ _

__“Of course!” She sticks a cookie in the bag and hands it to him, ignoring his protests of _Shawna stop I didn’t pay for that._ “Have a wonderful day, Tony.”_ _

__He finds a bench facing a quiet road somewhat down the way. Here, he can watch the cars pass in a way of privacy, shaded by the various trees that surround the small green space. As the cars pass, he watches the sun flash in the mirrors and windows and blinks out the sun spots._ _

__It’s calming._ _

__He eats his sandwich feeling simultaneously heavy and liberated, which is odd._ _

__The cars that go by do not necessarily notice the man on the bench. He means nothing to them; nor will he, in any circumstance. The only connection they may have is a passing thought in his brain as he eats._ _

__It’s been five months. Race takes a bite and wonders idly what kind of sandwich Spot would have ordered._ _

__

_In the fifth month, he makes a break for it._

_He waits until they’ve left him alone for the night, standing unmoving and straight as a rod. Supposedly, he’s watching the doors to the bunks, making sure no other escape attempts are made. The irony of the situation is not lost on him._

_When it seems like enough time has passed, and Spot is sure that no one will come, he lets his posture shrink and becomes one with the shadow. He disappears._

_They find him anyway, near the edge to freedom, and they drag him back, making sure he can see where he almost won all the way until it’s out of sight. He begs. He lets all of the compliance he’s built up over the five months vanish in a desperate attempt to get out of the hell he’s been placed in. The arms dragging him are ruthless and do not waver._

_Spot, he says. My name is Spot._

_They reach in and pry it out from where he has so carefully protected it. They take it and rip it to pieces._

_This is the night Spot becomes Sean._

__

__He knows, in his own way, that Spot is somewhere. Whether that somewhere be up in the stars or down right beside him, Race knows that Spot has not gone completely. There will always be some trace of him somewhere._ _

__This is perhaps what leads him to acceptance._ _

__He keeps the sleeves pushed up when he works, once again to mask the fact that they are too short and thus do not belong to him. The sweater does not smell like lab anymore, but that’s okay._ _

__Spot is close to him regardless._ _

___I’m proud of you,_ his ghost says, although it’s not the apparition that haunted Race's drunken moments and sober grievances. It’s the memory, more than anything._ _

___I’ll find you,_ Race replies, heeding his call._ _

__

__The technical division watches their assistant leader recover. For them, it’s a victory._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow holy shit okay despite how absolutely freaking busy I have been during all of september, it turns out this chapter is so large I have to split it into two, so, this is part one! I've already finished part two, it'll go up in a day or two I promise!  
> and this is also technically the final (planned) chapter of this little thing so please please please give me some suggestions on what to do next! I'm probably going to feel really lost without some writing to work on..
> 
> like always, tell me your favourite parts! and bless you all for being so wonderful, I do really appreciate it!!


	6. Cognitive Recalibration: the Benefits and the Losses (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coffee. adrenaline. laughter. keyboard. happiness.

Race is on the roof of his apartment building. 

The sun is dipping below the horizon, casting slight gray shadows over the city. He’s surrounded in golden light, watching as the world below him moves and breathes without him. 

_It’s like a colony of ants,_ he thinks. All the cars on the street are in a rush to get somewhere else, and nobody takes a moment to stop and look around. _Before you know it, it’ll be too late, and you’ll stop and look and wish you had done it when it was still beautiful._

It’s the anniversary of Spot's death, and Race has a ring in his pocket.

He lights a candle and places it on the ground, next to the three others lined against the wall of the stairwell. The first was from the night after Spot died, the second the month after, and the third at the six-month date. It’s taller than the others and red instead of off-white. In his pocket is a cigarette, and he lights it on the candle and sticks it in his mouth before sitting on the edge of the roof, fully aware that if there was ever a sudden gust of wind he’d be completely susceptible to tipping right off the edge. He can’t find it in him to care enough. 

The ring in his pocket is one that he had bought before everything had happened yet couldn’t muster up the courage to do anything with. Now, the plain silver band glints in the dying sunlight as Race holds it up and examines it, scraping away the ghostly remains of a water drop with his thumbnail. 

It matches the one currently occupying the middle finger of his left hand.

He takes a drag from his cigarette, leans back on his hands, and lets the cool of the approaching night seep into his UNY sweatshirt (which was Spot's, but that’s _unimportant_ ). The stucco of the outer building tugs at the folds of his jeans. He sits, takes in the world, and tries to honour Spot in the only way he can at the moment: remembering.

_Aren’t shoes required in a place like this?_

_Nobody’s told me off yet._

Maybe it’s time someone should. Spot hadn’t, of course. He never did. Nobody had seemed to notice; even now, although his not-so-recent decision to begin wearing shoes again has not gone unnoticed by nearly everyone he meets.

_Going to pass by without saying anything?_

_Thought that wasn’t much of a thing anymore._

_You want it to be._

_Yeah, you’re right._

_Asshole._

The rough ice cleared in that very moment, with a surprised laugh bubbling up out of his stomach as he had walked to his office. A flame.

_Like I said, it was a break-in._

_You’re okay, though?_

_I will be._

This was the day Race realized that maybe something else was going on behind those eyes. Behind his own. Because the second he had felt Spot's hand on his chest, he felt something rise against his throat: the same feeling that appeared when he discovered his technical group was in a real danger. The feeling of _it would kill me to lose you._

_I think you’re my favourite person here._

_I’ll take you home._

Then-

_I like you too, you sappy shit-_

The telltale click of the stairwell door opening snaps Race out of his memories. He swings his legs back over the edge of the building, ready to tell whoever it is that _no, he was not planning on jumping,_ but he stops as soon as he turns around.

Because standing in the doorway, stocky shoulders framed by the aging metal, is Spot.

Alive.

Race drops his cigarette and only dimly remembers to step on it. 

“What. The. Fuck,” he says, feeling betrayed at the tears already beginning to come to his eyes. “Spot?”

Spot stares straight ahead, not really watching. Race takes a shaky step forward.

“Spot,” he says again. “Am I hallucinating? What, fatigue plus stress plus your death date is making me go crazy?”

Finally, they connect eyes, and Race feels his entire body go numb.

“My name is Sean,” says Spot, in a voice so _painfully_ neutral.

There’s no warmth in those eyes, no love, no comfort that Race had grown to find in their time spent together. In fact, Race isn’t even sure Spot knows who he is, or where he is, or the importance of this rooftop. 

“Spotty?” he tries, once more.

Spot gives him a blank look. He takes a step forward, letting the door slam shut behind him, and suddenly there’s barely any space between them. Race wants to run to him and kiss him and hold him and confirm, with his own senses, that Spot is Spot and in front of him and _not dead,_ but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when Spot looks like this, and definitely not when Spot is looking at Race like _he’s_ the one who’s been doing wrong.

“I thought you were dead,” Race says finally, a crack in his voice betraying him. “What the fuck? What happened to you? It’s been an entire fucking year, and there’s been nothing. Nothing! And you look perfectly fucking okay, which I know isn’t an indication of what’s happened but come on, if you were desperate you wouldn’t have climbed sixteen flights of stairs just to get to the roof and stare at me. No heads up? No _hey, I’m not dead, joke’s on you?_ I was wrecked, and you left me to be wrecked for twelve fucking months. _What the fuck?_ ”

Tears are beginning to trace the ridges of his face and he rips his gaze from Spot, trying to hide them, because Spot looks completely unmoved. “ _What happened?_ ”

Race feels like he might throw up.

He barely notices when Spot reaches behind him, and only just manages to pitch himself out of the way when a flash of silver appears in Spot's hand, flying towards him faster than he thought possible.

 _Holy shit,_ Race says to himself, still only half paying attention.

Spot lunges at him again, and Race desperately tries to snap himself out of this grief-stricken trance. He dives to the side again as the blade swipes over his head. _Holy shit._

“Spot?” he hazards once more, and this time instead of ducking, he puts up his arms and attempts to hold his ground. 

Spot growls, honest-to-god _growls,_ and Race decides to put all attempts at reasoning aside for now and to start paying attention to the knife his undead boyfriend is trying to kill him with.

His phone is in his pocket, he realizes, and if there ever would be a time to call Jack and his army, it would be now. There are many things Race can lie about, but he cannot tell himself that he’ll win this fight. Spot has always been just a little bit stronger, just a little bit more powerful.

Race abandons his attempt to fight back and ducks, hitting the gravel of the roof and rolling. As he does, he tries to hook a limb- whatever’s closest, he’s not picky- around Spot's leg and pull him down too.

Spot hops out of the way. Race groans, gets to his feet, and punches Spot square in the face.

Every time he lands a hit, he apologizes. 

“You’ll get over it,” he says, mostly to himself. Spot has not spoken a word, just rebuilt the fire in his eyes. There is no question that his blade is out for blood. Race will not let that happen.

He gets a lucky hit that sends the knife skittering across the ground. 

 

_**to jack:** my roof help now_

 

As predicted, Spot gets the upper hand. Race likes to think he gave a valiant effort, that the times he hangs out with Jack in the training centre really pay off. However, Spot is currently cold and unsympathetic and most likely under control of something. Race can’t rule out unfair odds.

“Spotty, _please,_ ” he says, because he has not yet hit the point where begging is beneath him. “You’re better than this.”

Spot does not answer. He lifts his arm up and brings the knife down swiftly, without hesitation.

 

Race didn’t hear Jack open the door, but he is forever grateful for Jack’s instincts and lack of hesitation that probably saved his life. Jack manages to sprint across the roof and catch Spot's hand just as the knife nears Race's chest.

“Holy _shit,_ ” Race breathes.

Spot and Jack roll off him in a bundle of blurred fists and shuffling. Race takes the knife and sticks it in his pocket, content to not let it out of his control. The sight of Spot, particularly with such a malicious intent, still makes his stomach turn.

Jack is quite literally sitting on Spot, which would be comical if not for a few key points, such as the fact that half an hour ago Spot was still quite dead. 

“I’m not gonna ask just yet,” says Jack, giving Race a _look,_ “but I do think I deserve some answers.”

“I don’t think I have the ones you’re looking for,” Race tells him. “What do we do?”

Jack chews on his lip. “I called Smalls on my way here. She should be around soon, I’m sure we can figure something out.”

Race makes sure the knife is firmly in his pocket and crosses the roof to sit behind the stairwell entry. He sits with his back digging into the rough brick, his knees tight to his chest.

This time, like so many of the others, he can’t control the tears that slip out of his eyes. 

 

_Spot keeps his name. He shelters it and curls his body around it and as long as he is unbreakable, his name will be safe._

_They continue to call him Sean, as though it would make any difference. He lets his eyes, though angry and bruised and red from lack of sleep, tell his defiance better than any words can._

_His name is one carefully guarded fact. The other: he must find Race. He must find a way out._

_To do this, he responds to Sean. He says 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' so many times he forgets how to say anything else._

 

“Is he safe?”

Blink looks over his shoulder to the window in the lab. “As safe as he can be.”

Race stands at the door and, without looking at the scientist, he says, “Thank you.”

He feels Blink’s hand on his shoulder briefly and then the weight is gone. More than anything, right now, Race wishes he had Spot beside him instead of in the room in front of him, holding his hand instead of trying to kill him.

The door opens smoothly under his fingers.

“I don’t know your name,” Spot says carefully, staring at the clock above the door. His hands flex into fists and then relax, physically restraining himself from lashing out.

“You can call me R,” says Race. “Are you going to try to kill me again?”

Spot leans his head back, fixes his gaze on the ceiling. “I’ve been told that it’s not a good idea to attempt it here.”

“They’re probably right.” 

“That doesn’t mean I don't want to.”

Race stops just out of arm’s reach from where Spot sits on the desk. He notices that the room has been somewhat cleared but is open and casual, as though Spot is waiting for someone and not being held.

“Why?” Race dares ask.

Spot answers simply, “I’ve been ordered to.”

This, Race knows, is a trademark experiment of Snyder’s. It makes sense, in a twisted, evil sort of way- find an integral member of the agency and turn him against the rest- and Race hates to admit that the logical portion of his mind must agree with the reasoning. If he hadn’t miraculously texted Jack, he would most certainly be dead, and he can’t know what would have happened after.

“Do you know why you were ordered?” asks Race, as casually as he possibly can.

Spot's hand clenches again, so hard it begins to shake. “Because you’re a threat, and because I can’t refuse an order.”

 _I can’t refuse an order_ seems to be more of a resigned admittance than a calculated answer, even though Spot is all about the numbers- which means something else is at play.

Race watches his fist shake and notices how similar it looks to the remnants of fear. He spreads his arms out wide and steps closer, in full range of anything Spot could attempt. 

“Go on, then,” he says. “Kill me. Do what you must.”

Spot only tilts his head at Race. “You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t want to die,” Race tells him, with as much honesty as he can muster.

Spot lifts his shaking hands with the intent to cause harm, but instead he just stops and stares at them. He is refusing an order by not carrying it out.

He drops his hands to his knees and lets his fingernails dig in deep.

Race turns around and leaves after that, sparing Spot no second glance until he is safely out of view. Spot can’t know that the man he is trying to kill knows his life story, his fears and his passions and the things that make him tick.

Race knows when Spot is in pain. He finds a garbage can to bend over and deeply regrets not eating breakfast that morning.

 

As if spiting him, it pours steadily over the next four days.

Race comes to work soaked despite having called a taxi, and a towel becomes a semi-permanent fixture in his office. Once, he catches Spot looking almost wistfully out the window. He matches the look on Spot's face to one of longing, as though in that moment there’s nothing more Spot wants to do than stand in the rain and feel it on his face. 

Race wants to tell him to give it time, that he’ll get there eventually, but he’s not sure himself.

He sits in his office, back to his computers, and when he thinks about Spot, all he can now think about is the way Spot's eyes stared blankly at him on the roof. He can only think now about the glint of the knife in the dying sunlight, the crunch of gravel as the blade hit the spot just out from the crook of his neck. He can feel Spot's weight on top of him, but not the good kind- now he feels trapped, unable to move, watching the knife come down from nobody other than--

 _And Race was finally beginning to move on._

Race picks up his hand and watches it shake just slightly, matching Spot's tremor. 

He tries to think of Spot before, but all that comes to him is the now-faded picture still taped to his computer monitor. He can’t for the life of him remember what it was like to take Spot's hand and raise it above their heads in victory after a competition with Jack, what it felt like to kiss him and run his hands through his hair and see love in those eyes.

He feels himself rip in two, all over again.

With the breath that builds in his lungs, heaving and shaking and unrelenting, Race curses Snyder and New York and his hacking and everything that brought him to this very moment in time. 

 

And so the cycle continues.

It takes two months for Spot to stop restraining himself in Race's presence. They've let him move, let him re-make the lab as home, but Race's constant visits seem to do nothing but bring more pain.

Race asks, after two months, "Do you still feel the need to stab me every time I walk in the room?"

"No," says Spot, and that's the end of the conversation. 

He is asked why later that week, and he says, "That would be counterproductive. I may not remember anything, but I know basic survival skills."

To hear Spot speak so detached, still with no memory, makes Race disappear for another two days.

Within those months and the few to come, Blink leads the team of scientists with the intent to find out what exactly what was done to make him forget so completely. They run secret and not-so-secret brain scans and attempt to jog his memory on the regular.

Then, Blink shows him a candid picture of him and Race from Before, sitting on a couch obviously late at night, kissing.

Spot looks at it for a long time.

"That's me," he says finally.

"Yep," says Blink.

"And that's R."

"It is."

"We're kissing." slowly, Spot relinquishes the phone, and sits with his hands twisting in his lap. 

Blink nods. "You wanted to know why he keeps coming even though he knows you want to kill him. That's why."

Spot retreats to the corner of his lab, where Mush put in a mattress and a large pile of blankets, and stays there for the rest of the night. The thoughts in his head are so loud that Blink can hear them swirl.

Spot slams his palms against the edge of the table, feels the pain and the bruising that seems all too familiar and somehow connected, and he tries to figure out what it means.

 

_Spot's palms are tired and bruised from hitting the bars too many times. He does not care, only hits them again with renewed vigor. This is nothing he has never done before, nothing he hasn’t had to do._

_“They’ll come,” he shouts at the darkness surrounding the cell._

_He could make a plea that Snyder is simply creating a horror movie as a small condescending chuckle echoes from all sides of him. “You really think that, don’t you?”_

_Spot makes no move to deny. He holds his head up high and wraps shaking fingers around the blessedly cool metal of the cell bars._

_“Sean,” says the man, and he does not step into the light, but instead clicks his tongue at Spot's automatic correction. “Sean. You don’t know half of it. They left you to die.”_

_“I don’t believe you,” Spot says. He doesn’t._

_“What can I say? You’re dead to them, Sean. No more search parties, no more frantic phone calls. You have disappeared from their roster.”_

_Spot thinks and counts what he thinks is the amount of time since he said goodnight to Race that one final time. His conclusions bring him to about three days missing. Race would not stop now, nor would anyone else. It hasn’t been enough time._

_But the conviction, the gloating tone that Snyder takes on means that he knows he’s already won. There is no wavering- and Spot would know, because if nothing else he prides himself on finding weaknesses._

_The realization of what has happened hits him harder than his palms on the bars, and he’s sure it will leave a bruise long past the ones on his hands. “You’ve killed me.”_

_Snyder’s laugh echoes. It gets further away. “And he doesn’t even care.”_

_Spot doesn’t need to ask who ‘he’ is. He understands._

 

Race walks in the next day and Spot has not moved. From the corner, Spot peers over the table at him with eyes showing pain and regret.

“You love me,” he says. It is not a question.

“Yes,” Race answers without hesitation.

“Why?”

This takes time for Race to answer. “Because even though you can’t remember, even though you aren’t yourself, you’re still Spot. That much hasn’t changed. I can’t blame it on you for trying to kill me. I can only hope that my help will be enough now, when it counts.”

Spot lapses into a thoughtful silence. “Thank you,” he says finally. “For the record, even though I understand exactly why he wants you dead, I can see now that you deserve better.”

Race gives Spot a small, rare smile and nods. He turns to leave, and to his back Spot says: “And I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

“Me too,” Race says. As if the universe aligns in that very moment, both men sit and try desperately to keep it in, mirroring each other from six floors apart.

 

No matter what he does, Spot still doesn’t remember. Race is still a target, and Blink is no one other than that one scientist, and the place he is in is no longer _his_ lab. 

Months pass. Spot seems to get more reserved, less willing to even carefully chat with anyone, and he tends to stay in a spot in the corner. Despite all attempts by all the divisions to counteract Snyder’s technology, nothing has yet showed even a step of progress toward the old Spot.

They find Race crumpled at the bottom of the stairwell, sobbing. 

There’s a strip of dust down the edge of his shirt and his left leg is crushed under his hip, and small gravel pebbles have made imprints in the palms of his hands. His glasses are very off-kilter but there is no effort made to reconnect them with his nose. He sits and stares, and he cries.

Because he’s been working so hard for so long and _nothing_ is working and there is no question that this is worse than before. 

Before, he had the opportunity to come to terms with what had happened. He would have been able to move on with the knowledge that there is no way for Spot to come back to him, because death is final.

Now, he will never get the luxury. 

 

Somehow, the world moves on, and Race feels left behind.

 

By some miracle, the people of the agency begin to adopt Spot back in simply by being overwhelmingly _good._ The medical division all come at many points during the day and discover with delight that most of Spot's biochemistry is still in his brain, which leads to the lab becoming much more of a real lab once again. Katherine manages to get enough books to fill two bookshelves for Spot, who reads them all within an abnormally short amount of time. He goes out with Specs and Finch to buy more lab equipment and also get food, and Spot feels the rain on his face.

Race brings him sandwiches from Double Crusts and crosses his fingers every time Spot takes a bite.

Spot enjoys them, of course, but when Race references Shawna or Pat, the owner, he is met with a blank stare.

“Did I know them?” he asks once, and when Race nods he drops his food onto his lap. “It’s like there’s a literal hole where they should be. I can’t- I just can’t find them.”

It’s been six months. Race considers putting another candle on the roof.

Snyder’s men lead an attack on the agency in the seventh.

 

_The most he figures out is that he’s in a car; this much becomes clear the moment the car stops and the back doors are thrown open. The only light now is harsh and orange and industrial and coming from somewhere just out of eyeshot. Spot does not move._

_“You can get up, Sean,” says the same low voice that continued to talk and watch as Spot struggled to breathe on the floor of the car. “You have the capability.”_

_Spot notices that he can move his arms again, just not apart from each other. Still, it’s enough to get his legs under him, and before he turns around he wonders if it’s worth it to make a run._

_He turns around and decides that he wouldn’t take a step in the wrong direction without being shot from twenty different guns._

_And there, at the center of it all, is Spot's growing suspicion proved correct: Snyder dusts off his suit, no doubt ready to have it sent off to a cleaner the moment he is able._

_“Welcome,” Snyder says, “to your new home.”_

_Jack would probably have some witty remark, something to counteract the bravado and complete confidence Snyder has. Spot says nothing and stews silently._

_Someone unidentified grabs Spot's arms and begins yanking him backwards to places unknown._

_“My name is Spot,” Spot spits at the epicenter of his mess._

_Snyder’s smile grows ever wider, only emphasizing an unsettling aspect of himself. “Not for long.”_

 

Race sees the threat coming before the lockdown goes into effect. There’s a lot of them coming for the lower levels, which- while more inconspicuous- are more heavily alarmed.

The lockdown gives them time to plan. Pulitzer calls an emergency meeting with the division leaders and Race, naturally, skulks in the corner of Specs’ office to listen.

“They’re not going to be quiet about it,” Jack says as the resident expert on all strategy related to Snyder. “The lockdown will only prolong the inevitable.”

“If we release the lockdown, we are putting our entire staff at risk,” Pulitzer counters.

They don’t see Jack shrug but the intention is clear. “Anybody who wants to fight their sorry asses can very well do so. We can evacuate or hide the rest.”

Race says quietly, “It’s the Battle of Hogwarts.” Only Specs hears, and he shoots Race a rueful smile.

“They’re coming for Spot,” Blink says. “I can lock down the lab, but there’s too many windows.”

After an uneasy silence, Pulitzer begins, “In keeping with the interest of the general public, perhaps our action should be to-”

“Not a chance, Joe,” Race interrupts. He senses the suggestion to relent. “I will stand between them myself.”

Pulitzer starts to tell Race that he shouldn’t be a part of the call, but Jack says, “Same,” and Pulitzer sputters back to quiet.

Specs looks at Race for a long time. Race is alight for the first time in- _years,_ apparently, with determination and a protectiveness so fierce that he looks like someone new.

“Me too,” he decides.

Blink agrees. So does Smalls. Together, the five of them heavily outweigh any decision that Pulitzer could possibly make.

“Send the word out to be careful,” says Pulitzer finally, resigned. “Hide if you want to, fight if you can. We will not let this office crumble.”

“Aye aye, captain. Let’s Battle of Hogwarts this shit.” This is Jack, and Race immediately knows this is why they're friends. The call cuts out, and he is alone with Specs. 

Specs looks at him curiously. “You finally look like you have something to fight for,” he concludes. 

Race blows a breath out through his lips. “Thank you, Spence. And you’re right.”

Race finds his contact lens case in his pocket and snaps it open, sliding his glasses off his face lest they get broken.

“I have something to fight for, obviously. I have Spot.”

 

Race calculates that he has exactly two minutes, thirty-four seconds, and two milliseconds to sprint all the way down to the labs before the breach. And yes, maybe he has never won a race, but he can sprint when it counts.

Shoving his way through the stairwell doors and taking the stairs as many as he can at a time bring him back almost painfully to the day of his first lockdown with Spot, in almost the exact same position. The irony of it is not lost on him.

Because now, just as before, he is running to protect a man who barely even knows his name.

He makes it with twenty-six seconds to spare. 

“What are you doing here?” Spot asks as he overrides the lockdown system, having gathered that something is obviously going on. From across the hall, Blink gives Race a small salute, which is quickly returned.

Race says bluntly, distractedly, “They’ve come back for you.”

“What?”

“Where’s the most secure place in this lab?” asks Race instead, ignoring the question. “Somewhere we can escape if we need. You know Ryan?”

Spot blinks. “The scientist that makes too many puns and has a glass eye.”

“That’s the one. He’s gonna be able to get you out if things go south. Trust him.”

Spot wedges his way in between where Race has begun to overturn desks and stack chairs against the doors. “Stop. Stop. R, what the hell is going on?”

Race whips around to look Spot dead in the eye. “Snyder and his men are attacking us in literally two seconds. They’re here for-”

Something rumbles. Race feels a tremor of the floor under his feet.

“You,” he finishes quietly. “Spot, I swear, if you go all _winter soldier’s russian reset code_ on me I’m shooting you myself.”

Spot grimaces apologetically. There’s a bang and a larger shake. “No promises, my guy.”

The first of Snyder’s men begin to appear in the hallway, and Race sends his message to the remainder of the agency who had chosen to fight:

**R: kick it in the ass guys, don’t die**

**R: HERE THEY COME**

 

It’s not okay or normal or safe. It never is. This is something Race knew long before he accepted the job at the agency. 

He’s kept his barriers standing for as long as possible, watched as various members of various divisions find ways to deplete the growing number of invaders, and knocked out the guy who shattered the first window and nearly shot Spot in the shoulder. After that he quite bodily shoved Spot underneath his stockpile of desks, and now he stands once more, guarding.

More shots come. More windows break. The ceiling light above Race bursts, showering the space around him with burning glass. Still, the broken rod stays harshly lit.

And then, as Race is just about to think that _maybe_ they’ve managed to fend it off completely, Snyder himself appears. 

Spot scrambles out from beneath the desks. Race does not move, just waves him toward the opposite door. His stare remains firmly fixed on Snyder.

Spot realizes that Race has full faith that he will not return to Snyder. Part of him wants to. There’s a portion of his heart that is screaming because he hasn’t yet completed his mission, and that Snyder is going to bring him back and continue to train him and bring him-

_no. it’s not home anymore._

Spot tugs his stray heart away from the man in the suit and brings all of him toward the door.

 

Race stands face to face with Snyder, drawn to full height, expression one of pure and unchecked rage. Despite his lanky frame, there is nothing about Race at this very moment that does not scream _out for blood._

“You did this,” he growls.

Snyder, to his credit, looks actually nervous. A blossom of pride blooms in Race's stomach for the smallest of seconds before he stomps it down. “I’d kill you on the spot,” he says, “except I think I know someone else who deserves to put a bullet in your head even more than I do.”

The near-inaudible huff of laughter that comes from Snyder’s mouth is enough to propel Race forward, heaving his entire body behind the palm he sends directly at Snyder’s nose.

As Snyder reels, Race catches a glimpse of Spot, hanging in the doorway between the lab and the hallway. “Go,” Race yells. “Find Ryan, he’ll get you out of here.”

He turns back just in time to find Snyder recovered and coming back full-force. Fueled exclusively by adrenaline and fury, he ducks and weaves around Snyder’s lumbering attempts to get Race on the ground and tries his damned hardest not to kill the man. That is Jack’s job.

 

Everything is going too fast for Spot. He stays in the doorway, disregarding Race's call to move. Something in him keeps him rooted to the spot, unable to get the duo fighting out of his sight. Every time Snyder lands a hit, something tugs Spot closer, pulls his chest so tight he sucks in a breath just to make sure he _can_. 

But there are two entrances to the lab. One is across from where Spot stands, and a shadow fills the light of it completely. 

 

Race is not particularly heavy, but Snyder is not getting up. 

Snyder lays on the floor, stares directly into Race's eyes, and smiles, blood colouring his teeth.

 

The shadow holds a knife. 

 

Spot sees the shadow move into the lab, carefully and silently, holding the blade at just the right angle that the harsh light from the broken bulb shines off it and reflects directly into Spot's eye. And instead of moving towards him ( _it doesn’t see him, he thinks_ ) it goes to Race.

The tug in Spot's chest swallows him whole.

_you have to move you have to move now the shadow will kill kill kill the shadow make it stop move move it won’t stop you have to make it stop make it stop no more blood spilled no more of your people your people_

_your people are not your people anymore_

_your people…_

_they do not hurt. they do not lie. they are your people. they are protecting you, and you must return the favor_

_do with me what you will, he says. he says, kill me if you must._

_he says, I don’t want to die._

_he doesn’t want to die._

_he will if you keep waiting don’t wait go go go kill the shadow the shadow will kill him he is your people he is your family he is_

_coffee_

_adrenaline_

_laughter_

_keyboard_

_happiness_

_race_

_race_

_kill the shadow and protect_

_race._

 

Snyder’s bloody teeth disappear as soon as the crash happens. Race risks a quick glance over his shoulder and sees Spot grappling with a shadow- or so it seems, in the dim light, although there is a person under the shadow. 

Spot lifts his head just once, and they lock eyes. Race has never seen such emotion in his eyes before.

 _Race,_ he mouths. 

Race returns his gaze to Snyder and whispers, “I win.”

 

Jack’s voice rings out from the second entrance to the lab. “Hey, assholes. Heard you had something for me.”

Spot is sitting against the wall spinning the shadow’s knife in his hand. He grins at Jack when he walks in and says, “I remember you.” 

Jack laughs freely. “Hear that, Snyder? Another failed experiment.”

Race stands up, brushes off the flaked blood on his hands, and gestures toward where Snyder lays on the floor, dazed. 

“Jeez, you really did a number on him.” Jack steps in closer and reveals a heavily beaten face, complete with a lip-splitting grin and a tight grip on his gun. “Can’t blame you, obviously. Man had it coming.”

“You deserve it,” Race says to him. He clasps Jack once on the shoulder and gives his hand to Spot, who boosts himself up. They walk out together.

Jack watches them go. 

“Kelly,” Snyder greets, gritting his teeth against the word.

“Snyder,” Jack replies cooly. “Welcome to our humble agency. Hope you’ve enjoyed your stay.”

The man says nothing, only glares defiantly up at Jack. Jack lets himself chuckle just a little bit too long on purpose, the emotion that has been pent up for over ten years bubbling out in a dash of insanity. 

He doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his gun, aims, and fires.

Then, at the body of the man who has been his anxiety, his captor, the man who has killed Jack more times than he could even count, Jack laughs.

 

_When he wakes up, the world is moving. He can see a ceiling above him shift with every bump, and somewhere below him is the sound of whirring and crunching._

_The blade apparently didn’t go far, as he can feel all of his organs still in place, each one tight in his body with only the indistinct pulling from somewhere in his abdominal area that indicates something is bandaged or stitched. It hurts, but less than he thinks it should._

_“Welcome back, Sean,” says a low voice to his upper left. Spot automatically corrects his own name, content with the word Sean being used only by a select number of people. This voice is one he does not recognize, and therefore one he does not allow._

_He realizes in that very moment that he cannot move his hands or his legs or anything, really, and this is where the panic begins._

_The voice says, “We’ll make something out of you yet.”_

_Spot makes himself breathe and ignores the implications._

 

Clean-up goes late into the evening. Race and Spot put the lab as back-together as possible, playing loud showtunes in the background.

For a while, Race is content to just be in the presence of _his_ Spot. Spot seems elated just to be home.

“I’m sorry,” Race says. “I really did think you were dead.”

“I know. Snyder told me.”

Race lets the table he’s holding slip out of his fingers and drop with a thud. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah. Until I tried to escape and they made me forget.”

Spot gets a mouthful of Race's shirt as Race envelops him in the biggest hug he has ever received. “I can’t imagine,” Race says into his hair. 

The hug makes the both of them finally content for the future. Race doesn’t want to let go. Spot doesn’t let him let go.

 

Elsewhere in the building, Jack is holding onto Davey and Crutchie like his life depends on it, finally free.

Buttons and Jo chose to stay in their office, curled in a corner under a table, and even when the pseudo-lockdown is lifted they stay together, grateful for another day safe.

Katherine sits back and pours herself a drink.

Skittery finds a broom somewhere in the mess of the lab floor and begins the laborious task of cleaning the halls free of broken glass and concrete dusk. He’s joined quickly by Santos, a field agent, and soon there are people from each division helping to put the lab floor back together.

Mush holds onto Blink’s hand all the way to the hospital, repeating _it’s going to be fine_ more for himself than for the man who has actually been shot. Blink, who has been put on morphine for the hole in his leg, tells Mush a story about his somewhat illegal high school yearbook committee.

Smalls finds Taps, another field agent, in a stock closet on the second floor. She gives no judgement, just sits next to the other girl and lets her cry into her shoulder. Taps, as she finds out, has lost people to Snyder before.

“You’ll get your chance to feel better,” Smalls tells her. She suggests talking to Jack.

Jack can feel a phantom weight of the gun he used to kill Snyder still in his hands. He curls his fingers in and then pushes them out flat, grabbing hold of the first thing he can find.

Crutchie’s hand is warm and soft and feels not at all like a gun. Jack decides he rather likes it.

 

“Hey,” says a voice from just inside Katherine’s office door. “Care for a walk?”

Katherine brings her eyes up to meet Smalls, who beams at her. She has her hair down and out of the ponytail, a rare occurrence, and this is where Katherine can really see the blue that runs through it. “Of course,” she says brightly, shoving her chair away from the desk.

“I hear you’re writing a book.” They walk through the hallway and down the stairs. 

“I am,” Katherine says, surprised. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Oh,” says Smalls, “around.”

Katherine nods thoughtfully. “I take that to mean Romeo told you. Good kid.”

As they reach the atrium, Katherine waves to Romeo and Itey. They simultaneously squat and finger-gun her and it looks very rehearsed until Itey falls over. 

Smalls snaps her fingers back at them. “Fantastic balance, Ite, you could be on my team.”

“There’s a reason I’m in comm,” Itey groans. “I have the strength of a puff pastry.”

The girls leave them on the floor, all in good spirits, and make their way to the laboratory floor.

“And then you said, and I quote, _looks better than your unwashed-_ ”

“Vomit shirt!”

This is the point at which Smalls and Katherine walk in on Spot and Race, sitting on the mattress still in the corner facing each other, laughing.

“I kind of remember that?” Spot is saying. “Wait, wait- _cupcake._ ”

“Oh, no. I was hoping you’d forgotten that one.”

“Never.” 

Smalls and Katherine share a smile and continue on their way to pick up Dela for lunch. 

“Tell me about your book,” Smalls says, and watches Katherine light up.

 

_The streets of Brooklyn had been Spot's home for a good part of his life. He knows every crack in the pavement, every loose brick, every alley and turn and twist and shortcut there is. If there was no other way to describe it, Spot would say he feels safe here._

_It starts raining as he walks, not a downpour but still heavy enough to warrant a hood. Streetlights begin to flicker on as the clouds add to the darkness around him. Somewhere to the left, a single car rolls down the street._

_Why is Spot here? Because Race really has no intention of leaving the office that night, and Spot has something important to do._

_He looks at the address written on his hand- one that he memorized long ago, yet couldn’t shake the feeling that it would slip out of his mind the moment he left. The same as the one he grew up with._

_He rehearses: “Hey, mom.”_

_He never gets that far._

_Brooklyn streets have always been a comfort to Spot, but he supposes that with such an underlying and vast threat towards not just himself but anyone and everyone involved at his work, there is no corner of the city without its eyes. He should know that even the safest places can be compromised._

_The arms drag him around a corner and out of sight and when he tries to move all he receives is a blade in the stomach. So he lies on the ground, shadowy figures making moves around him that he can only dream of understanding, and the rain mixes with his blood on the asphalt._

 

It ends as it began: at the front entry of the Lower Manhattan Intelligence Office, with Race taking off his shoes.

“Are those the socks you bought last week?” asks Spot, waiting as Race struggles with the laces on his left shoe. His jeans are rolling up just enough to broadcast the pizza slices on skateboards that are the subject of the socks. Race bobs his head in a nod, and Spot says, “that’s amazing.”

Race thinks for a moment. “Glad you think so, dysfunctional toaster oven.”

“ _Dysfunctional toaster oven._ Is that really necessary?”

“Yes.”

They’re about to part ways at the stairwell when Race says, “Wait. We have leftover snacks from the installation sleepover two days ago. Take some?” So Spot follows him up the stairs to the fifth floor and tries to think of an insult to match.

The office that they enter has every indication that Race has spent the past seven years making it his home. The main desk is littered with paperwork that has been weighed down by screwdrivers or coffee mugs. Some of the posters on the walls have been more recently procured, but Spot recognizes some of the band posters as the same ones that went up the minute Race moved in. There’s a doorbell next to the door connecting to Specs’ office. Instead of industrial company window shades, Race has put up two small pride flags as curtains.

Race shuts the door, locks it, and says, “We’re going to the roof.”

“I have work to do,” Spot reminds him, but really it’s paperwork that he is ecstatic to put off another day.

“Fuck your work,” Race replies. “I mean, what?”

“You suck.”

Race winks. “You betcha.”

They run into Jack on the way up. Jack’s shirt has a fresh paint stain on it. “Hey, friends,” Jack says, evidently somewhat distracted. “Race, I think Darcy’s got an opening later this afternoon if you still wanted to talk to him.”

Race nods his thanks and drags Spot up to the roof before Spot can ask.

The roof, miraculously, is empty, with a single dropcloth fluttering on the rail to dry the only indication that Jack had been here just two minutes previous. Race finds the blanket he’s tucked under Jack’s lively setup and throws it over the ground.

“What was it you wanted to talk to Darcy about?” Spot asks finally.

Race shrugs. “I’m thinking of taking an indefinitely extended leave. I’ve always wanted to travel, and having gotten this job right out of high school, I haven’t had the chance to do much.”

Spot hums. They lapse into a content quiet, a bag of chips between them the only noise.

“Do you want to come?” Race asks.

“What?”

“Come with me. We can go anywhere you want.”

Spot shuffles so he’s looking Race straight in the face. “You’re serious.”

“Well, yeah, why not? I’d imagine it would get kind of lonely, traveling all on my own.”

Race's face is genuine and earnest. Spot feels a tug in his chest.

“I’d love to,” he says. “Of course. Always.”

He loves the way Race's smile seems to light up the entire roof. “Thank you,” Race says. 

“I love you, meathead.”

“Right back atcha, melted crayon.”

Spot picks up the bag of chips and dumps the crumbs on Race's head. Their laughter echoes across the skyline.

 

_“I’m just about to leave,” Spot says. He puts the coffee into Race's hand and lets himself relax at the feel of Race's fingers, warm and solid. “Don’t overwork yourself._

_“I’ll try my best, Spotty.” Race's eyes are wide and shining with conviction, honest. “Thank you.”_

_Spot lets his mouth shift. “Don’t mention it. Cupcake.”_

_He turns to leave, content with the sight of his rumpled, brilliant boyfriend in his second home._

_“I’ll try to get home tonight,” Race says, stopping Spot where he stands, hand on the doorknob. “Don’t wait up for a text.”_

_“I’ll stay up all night worrying,” Spot flatlines, letting the dryness of the humor speak for itself. In actuality, he has a mission; but he’ll be home inevitably before Race even thinks again about leaving._

_Race's sigh is tinged with laughter, clean and clear and beautiful. “Dumbass.” Spot shoots him a pair of finger guns and fights the urge once again to ruffle his hair. “You’ve got crazy science to do tomorrow. Be safe on your way home.”_

_Safe? It may not be safe, but it will be worth it._

_“Don’t die,” Race says, looking straight at Spot._

_“That’s a promise.”_

_Spot shuts the door, adjusts his bag, and smiles at the wall._

_It’s a promise he intends to keep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and there you have it. the end. I did tell y'all that it was gonna end with them eating chips, didn't I?
> 
> fun fact: the first roof scene was one of the first scenes I ever wrote for this fic! I've been sitting on it for 36k words apparently jeez,, god this is like the end of an era for me guys
> 
> it's been such a blast to write! I've loved every minute of it, and guys your positivity has really kept me going. I want to thank you all for being so wonderful and so amazing and I promise this is not the end!! writing is something I'll always have with me and I'm always going to be willing to share it with you.
> 
> speaking of sharing, if anybody wants the Way Chapter Three Could Have Gone (aka. bonus angst) just hit me up @/impalahallows on tumblr and I'd be glad to shoot it your way!! also, tell me what to write next. PLEASE. otherwise I'm gonna have an idea vacuum for the next three months in which I try six different things and none of them work. I'm begging you all, please send me prompts or ideas or anything that you'd like to read and I'll most definitely see what I can do!!
> 
> love love love to you all!

**Author's Note:**

> maybe posting this will actually encourage me to finish the rest of the chapters.
> 
> not beta'd, by the way, so if anything's weird tell me! or just tell me if you liked it! xx
> 
> check out my tumblr! // impalahallows


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